


(we're in this war now) we're all in it all the way

by Kells



Series: The Varied Adventures of the Captain and Mrs. Cap [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Female Steve Rogers, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Team, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kells/pseuds/Kells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Strategic Science Reserve is preparing to go public with a project which is expected to completely change the direction of a war that has already been dragging on too long, Abraham Erskine is on the lookout for a soldier of a different ilk, and Howard Stark has just run into a couple of kids unlike anyone he's ever met before. </p><p>The rest is history, or it will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. are you doing all you can?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard Stark goes for a walk and nearly falls over the solution to several problems at once.

Stressed and haggard after a trying day culminating in a worse evening, Howard Stark had finally given up on his increasingly frantic post-mortem of the event and dragged himself away from the Stark Industries exhibition platform. He was looking forward to a much-needed cigarette, and maybe a whisky or four, and was doggedly ignoring the excited glances and speculative whispers that accompanied his every step when he all but tripped over a young couple in the street, the young man holding his girl close against his chest with one arm while she leaned against him, breathing hard. The fact that she was wearing his trench coat only made the pair of them seem more at risk: the girl was dwarfed by the too-large coat, and the guy only had a ragged shirt between him and the cold March air.

“You’re fine,” he promised in a measured tone. “It’s just too many people all day, maybe, and all that smoke just now. That wasn't so bad, Steph. You’re doing just fine.”

The girl he was talking to- Steph, apparently- was in no condition to reply as her head lolled against his shoulder. She didn’t strike Howard as fine at all: the episode seemed to be over, but her face was still ashen, her tearing eyes shut tight and her breathing still laboured. If this was the aftermath of ‘not so bad,’ Howard didn’t want to know how severe the- asthma attacks, he thought?- could get. He felt completely at a loss: the kids needed help, he knew, but Howard Stark was the last man in New York who could give it with any kind of competence. Human conditions really weren’t his thing- he could fix most any mechanical object, but for all that the body was really just a machine Howard had never responded to blood and bones quite like he did to gears and couplings. He also knew full well that he wasn’t the kind of character a guy needed for company while his girl cried all over him. Engines the Stark men could understand better than any living experts; emotions, not so much. Howard was shaken out of this mode of reflection by the sound of his name, of all things.

“…with guys like Stark to get us there. Easy, Stephanie, don't get frustrated. Come on, now, you know we just have to wait it out.” 

Howard was staring at the couple openly by the time the kid finished speaking. He had heard his family name cited in a lot of contexts, but never to give someone hope for the future, not in such a personal way. With increasing clarity, he remembered seeing these very kids at the disastrous demonstration of not an hour earlier. After the damned car had crashed to the ground, Howard had glanced up with a carefully charming grin plastered over the crushing disappointment that had almost shown full on his face. The crowd had responded in a variety of ways: there had been expressions of fear, some of disappointment, scattered admiration and derision, a fair amount of amusement- both innocent and gloating- and, in a far corner, pure wonder.

The dark-haired boy in his shirtsleeves had been grinning like a child on Christmas morning, one hand thrown over the girl clapping enthusiastically in front of him as if to shield her from the sparks that had singed Howard’s trousers. They had been so earnest in their excitement that Howard's smile had warmed into something real as he pointed out, still hiding his embarrassment, that he had promised success “in a few years,” after all. That had won the crowd right over, and Howard had been distracted by the calls and questions of journalists and potential investors. By the time he’d been free to scan the faces in front of him again, the pair had wandered off; apparently, they had been headed back for another look when the girl’s poor health had stalled their progress.

Stephanie was already struggling up and pulling carefully away, and Howard felt a pang of deep sympathy for the young man as his expression shifted as though automatically from cautious optimism into a cocky assuredness Howard recognized from his own repertoire of showman’s smiles.

“See,” he said brightly, “you’re fine. You’re perfect.”

“You’re biased,” Stephanie murmured, not the least bit fooled by his bravado. 

“Thanks, J.”

The guy’s brash expression crumbled completely. He dragged Steph close again and sighed unsteadily.

“You don’t ever have to thank me. I’m glad you’re okay.” 

She didn’t say anything, but her hands tightened about his shoulders in an embrace that Howard could see was as much reassurance as familiar affection. As she rested her head against her young man’s shoulder, still smiling at him, he watched her face with something like the awe with which he had responded to Howard’s temporarily flying car. 

“Hey,” Howard found himself calling, “You two wanna come over here? It’s warmer under the lights. I can send someone for a doctor if you want.” 

The couple glanced at each other in silent conference, then the guy nodded gratefully and got to his feet before offering Stephanie a hand up. They followed Howard slowly to the Stark Industries platform, and he waited with unusual patience as Steph, still trembling slightly, navigated the stairs with a firm grip on her guy’s arm. 

“Wait,” Howard burst out when the battered gold band on her left hand registered, "Are you kids married? What are you, seventeen?"

They were 23, it turned out, and had been married almost exactly two years already. Steph was Stephanie Barnes; her husband was James, but his friends called him Bucky to help disguise the shameful Glaswegian connections that had saddled him with his deplorably Scottish middle name. Bucky rolled his eyes and called his wife an Irish chauvinist as though it was a high compliment; Howard Stark, who had rarely wanted for anything in life except for easy companionship, smiled uncertainly at being so casually included in their familiar laughter. They were telling him where they were from (Brooklyn Heights born and raised, but with a lot of Dublin and County Clare in their collective history) when Stephanie suddenly frowned.

“Bucky, what did you do?”

Both men followed her movements in confusion as she caught her husband’s left hand in both of hers and glared at it critically. A deep cut across Bucky’s knuckles was bleeding freely, and Howard wondered how focused on someone else one had to be to miss that kind of injury. Steph's tone was almost accusing, but Bucky seemed more sheepish than disturbed as he admitted he had no idea what he had done, or even when it had happened.  

“I guess there was glass in the street? I had other things to think about out there.”

Stephanie shook her head, glaring, and insisted that if there was a doctor coming Bucky would get his hand seen to before one word was said about asthma. Her husband didn’t argue, observing with detached curiosity as Steph examined his hand minutely for signs of serious damage.

“It’s fine, a chroí.”

“Just because it doesn’t hurt,” she grumbled reproachfully, and Howard realized with a shock why the young man’s movements had consistently struck him as awkwardly off-balance for someone so athletically built.

“Is that a permanent condition?” He blurted his question before he realized what he was asking. Steph sent him a perfectly filthy glare, but Bucky just shrugged good-naturedly.

“So far. Don’t suppose you have some kind of robot replacement just laying around? Now that would be futuristic. Would you have married me if I had a metal arm, Steph, d’you think?”

“Sometimes I think you have a metal brain,” Stephanie retorted, “but I still love you dear, my dear." 

Her husband beamed at her before answering Howard in more detail. It had been five years and change since the accident, Bucky said, and he showed no sign of regaining any kind of feeling or control over it. More than one doctor had advised getting the amputation over with sooner rather than later, but Steph absolutely refused to hear of it, and Bucky didn’t care enough either way to go against her wishes. But they got by, the young man insisted, and his wife nodded with thin-lipped determination. Howard smiled sympathetically, feeling strangely grateful that they had decided to confide in him, and let them turn the conversation to the car with which they were sharing the Stark Industries stage.

He found himself talking with more candour than he normally showed his own staff, complaining about the setbacks, delays and theoretical inconsistencies that had led to that evening’s failure and found it surprisingly cathartic to talk to people who didn’t work for his father about his doubts and difficulties. To Howard's surprise, both Steph and Bucky disagreed vehemently with his assessment of the Stark Industries showing: they were absolutely convinced that a few seconds’ success was groundbreaking and worthy of all possible praise. Stephanie in particular insisted that the important thing was that someone dared to try in the first place. Bucky, who Howard had long since pegged as the realist of the two, shrugged and pointed out prosaically that the future hadn’t actually arrived yet.

“You’ve got time, Stark,” he said with another boyish grin. Howard tried to remember the last time a new acquaintance had addressed him with such teasing rapport instead of polite deference or outright reverence; he thought it might have happened once or twice during his first year at MIT. For the first time in a long time, he felt like the offered consolation might be more than a hopeful attempt to placate the boss’s unpredictable successor. His father was unlikely to endorse the Barnes’ perspective, he knew, but Howard thought he wouldn’t be any kind of scientist if he didn’t give every hypothesis some consideration.

Barnes seemed unusually knowledgeable about machinery for a dockhand; when Howard complimented him, Bucky admitted with a wry look that it came from growing up as the only guy in a household of women as much as from taking extra jobs wherever he could along the way. Being handy with a wrench, he added, was proving to be a major advantage now that the apartment block they still lived in was populated by a growing majority of women and children. Bucky’s face was shadowed as he said this, and Stephanie squeezed his hand without comment. Howard thought he saw a myriad of arguments that would not be rehashed in front of company play across their faces as their eyes met, and he tried his hesitant best to help smooth things over.

“It’s not so bad, is it? At least you know your guy’s as safe as anyone can be in New York.”

He didn’t say it was probably better for Bucky, too, to be able to see for himself that his too-vulnerable wife was still breathing. He suspected Barnes was thinking much the same thing, but the guy seemed to appreciate not having to hear it out loud. Howard found that the defensive cast to the young man’s habitual posture made a lot more sense. He had taken his own share of criticism for not rushing off to become a soldier the day after the news of Pearl Harbor had broken, but Stark Industries had a public enough role in the war effort that no one seriously believed Howard wasn’t doing his bit. For his own part, he knew for certain that he was doing much more for the war effort where he was than he ever could with a rifle in the dirt.

It must be hell, he realized with a pang of impotent unhappiness, to look more or less like a perfectly able-bodied young man getting on with his girl by his side and no intention of leaving New York. It probably helped that the girl in question was Stephanie, who was clearly the kind of kid who would take the head off anyone who dared to say anything at all undeserved within her hearing, but Howard knew too well what kind of trial it was to endure the mindless commentary of strangers who thought they knew your business. 

“It’s not bad at all,” Steph said firmly. She sounded tired rather than defensive, but Howard thought there was a little of both along with anger and maybe a touch of hurt in her sharp blue eyes. “But we’d win so much sooner if they’d let him help.“

The beautiful thing was that she really meant it, and her husband clearly knew she wasn’t just saying what he wanted to hear. Bucky kissed her cheek in wordless gratitude, then offered Howard a resigned smile.

“Only an idiot would leave this girl for any length of time if he could help it, anyway.”

“I could go too,” Steph suggested, pulling her braid into a messy bun with one hand as she turned to face him.

“Hide my hair, call myself Steve, come see Europe with you. It’d be fun, I think there are a lot of Rembrandts in Berlin." 

“Yeah,” her husband nodded. “Watch out, Adolf, Steve and Bucky’re comin’ for ya. Madman would never know what hit him, and after that we could go see all your museums- Paris, London, whatever you want. Didn’t you have a question before about something Deco 1930s Futurism something art words?”

Stephanie turned out to have several questions about Howard’s aesthetic decisions, including why he’d chosen Art Deco stylings from the previous decade for something he called a futuristic design, and whether red and gold meant something or he just liked the combination.

“They’re in my family crest,” Howard explained seriously, and laughed when the couple glared at him as one for imagining that they would buy that for a second.

As one disbelieving technician set out for coffee and “I dunno, something hot to feed these kids, they look like they haven’t eaten since this war began,” another ran for Abraham Erskine at the recruitment centre. The message he carried said that Howard Stark needed the doctor urgently, please and thank you; it was received with a curious glance and a serious nod. Unheeded by the trio chatting onstage, chorus girls who would normally have been long gone by that time lingered backstage to gawk and giggle at the sight of Howard Anthony Stark- genius, millionaire, playboy and rumoured automaton- showing something like real human emotion as he entertained a pair of nobody kids from Brooklyn.


	2. the girl with a future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter Abraham Erskine, intrigued by Howard Stark's sudden inclination towards hospitality.

A confused technical assistant stumbled into Dr. Erskine’s office with a note written in the bold scrawl that most of the Strategic Science Reserve knew all too well. Dr. Erskine smiled pleasantly, and not just out of politeness. The young man’s arrival heralded an end to the dreadful tediousness of the day the doctor had been having: Howard Stark’s involvement was bound to make any event a lot of things- loud, astounding, aggravating, potentially explosive- but never tedious. Erskine read the message with interest, then nodded agreeably and went to make his excuses to the medical team he had been working with. They weren't too sorry to see him go, but the doctor was getting used to the general unease his history- or possibly just his accent- sometimes caused in his new compatriots.

Erskine made idle small talk with Stark’s assistant as they crossed over to the Stark Industries pavilion, but their voice trailed into nothingness at the sight that greeted them on the brightly ornamented stage. Howard Stark’s perfectly-tailored trousers and handmade Italian shoes stuck out from under the no-longer-flying automobile, a hand gesturing semi-visibly as he lectured a young man and woman sitting on the floor next to the car. The couple leaned comfortably against each other as they listened, apparently unaware of being any kind of spectacle.

“Good evening,” the doctor called pleasantly. He tried not to smirk when Stark immediately hit his head on the undercarriage and swore colourfully. Howard’s guests winced in sympathy; the girl looked deeply concerned, but the boy spoke through barely suppressed laughter, bracing himself on the car as he peered under it.

“Still alive there, pal?”

The technician breathed in sharply: one did not lay hands on Howard Stark’s machinery uninvited. The engineer, however, only mumbled a cheerful affirmative and dragged himself back into the light. Erskine did a double take: for the first time in their acquaintance, the younger Stark appeared closer to his actual age than to his father’s. Stark had abandoned his dark jacket, his usually pristine hair was unkempt, and- perhaps most jarringly- the grin he threw his small audience was entirely unrehearsed.

“Damn thing feels lower to the ground than the last time I was down there. Probably psychosomatic, now I know it doesn’t go very far up. Evening, Erskine. Would you mind taking a look at these kids for me? One’s bleeding and the other periodically forgets how to breathe.”

The kids in question introduced themselves politely as Stark led the way to his office. James Barnes tried valiantly to have his wife seen to first, but Stephanie absolutely refused to hear of it. It was only when she, rather than Barnes himself, held his bloodied hand out to the doctor that Erskine realized the boy’s left arm was paralytic. He fielded Erskine’s questions with the stoic politesse of one who’d answered all of them before- not congenital, unfortunate run-in with a crane at the Navy Pier, no pain but no improvement in over five years-  until Stephanie asked politely what any of that had to do with Bucky’s immediate injury. The young woman’s smile never wavered, but Erskine got the distinct impression that it was time to stop talking and start stitching.  

Once she had been assured that her husband was not at risk of exsanguination or septicemia, Stephanie submitted to be examined herself.  The men stepped outside as was only proper; James-called-Bucky left his wife with a brief squeeze, following Stark out into his makeshift workshop with ill-concealed awe. Stephanie laughed as soon as the door closed behind them.

“They’re like a pair of kids,” she giggled. “‘Come on, Bucky, I'll show you my new toys!’ ‘That’s real swell, Howard, wanna watch the Dodgers with us when we go?’ We’re gonna have to take them some milk when we’re done here, or something.” 

The doctor smiled congenially and began his examination. The results were not especially encouraging. No less worrying than Stephanie’s severe asthma were her anaemia, low blood pressure and intermittent migraines, to say nothing of her weak heart and the lasting strain caused by too many other illnesses- pneumonia, most recently. The doctor tried to cover his dismay as he unconvincingly pronounced the girl fine –at least in terms of the asthma attack that was already over- but she was resigned to a diagnosis Erskine suspected she already knew by heart. In fact, Stephanie was already wrestling with an entirely different question.   

“You know Mr. Stark a bit, right? Do you think he'd give Bucky a job?”

“Does he need one?”

“Well, no, but- with Stark he could actually help, you know? Do something where he knew he was making a difference.”

Her eyes fixed on the huge recruitment poster visible outside Stark’s office window. Erskine followed her gaze curiously and took the opportunity to pose a version of the question he always found most revealing in the interviews he had been conducting recently.  

“You want your husband to kill Nazis?”

Stephanie turned on Erskine with a fearsome glare. The doctor’s eyes crinkled in approval, but he kept his face still.

“Excuse me?”

“You want your James to fight, or help with the fight, instead of rejoicing that he will not have to do these things. This behavior is encouraged in Germany; it is less common here. You know the army will not take him, so you suggest he begin making weapons instead. Therefore I ask: is all this because you want him to kill some Nazis? Will that make you proud of him?”

Stephanie’s flaxen braid whipped back and forth as she shook her head vehemently.

“I’ve been proud of him since we were kids, he knows that. It’s not about pride at all. He just- we don’t like bullies. It doesn’t matter where they’re from. Bucky says he’s okay, and he tries to mean it, but he’s been saying since the Anschluss that it was time someone took Hitler down, and he’d do anything to help. Not for America, not to make anyone proud- just because there are men laying down their lives out there, and it’s killing him not to do his bit.”  

He had tried exactly once, Stephanie elaborated when Erskine asked, but had come back, tense and demoralized, to report tonelessly that it didn’t matter that he was plainly fitter than half the guys who made 1-A because the US Army had no use for a soldier who couldn’t handle a rifle. There had seemed little point in making further inquiries after so uncompromising a dismissal.

Stephanie looked up at the doctor imploringly.

“But they can’t all be artillery guys, can they? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Erskine conceded that it did not. 

“It’s not that I want him to go out there and get shot at,” the young woman clarified with a tremor in her voice. “If anything happened- I know I should be thanking the Trinity for letting us off easy, but how can I ask him to be less than he can be? He’s so brave it makes him stupid sometimes, you know, and he wouldn’t know how to give up on his guys. He’s smart and quick and he’s pretty strong- he’d be the best there is, he would, if someone would just look at him and see more than that stupid accident.”  

The young woman trailed off, glancing cautiously at the doctor. She seemed surprised by her own outburst, but Erskine only nodded contemplatively.

“If half of that is true,” he said at last, “he certainly deserves a chance. I am prepared to offer one, such as it is- it’s only a chance, you understand, but unless I am much mistaken rifles would only play a minor role. Shall we see if the boys can be distracted from their toys long enough to hear my offer?”

When they got to the workshop, however, they found that the boys had already progressed from admiring Stark’s gadgets to arguing heatedly about their practical application.

“And if it fails she’s a widow or worse. How is that better than what we have now?”

“It won’t fail,” Stark insisted. His whole frame was taut with the strength of his conviction, his face and voice desperate to convince. It still wasn’t Howard the showman, Erskine saw, or even Stark the business mogul’s son. It was just the young scientist speaking, proud of his work and eager to please. 

“The numbers are right, everything’s in place. My hand to God, Barnes, it’s going to work.”

Steph turned to Erskine as she put the pieces together.

“You didn’t say he was building your machine.”

As the other men turned to meet them, Howard glancing curiously between Stephanie and Erskine as he realized what it meant that she already knew what he was talking about. Her husband shook his head.

“Are _you_ with the SSR too? What kind of secret team is this that everyone knows all its business?”

“I asked Doc Erskine if he thought Mr. Stark might have a job for you. He said maybe there’s another way. Which you already know about, huh. What exactly do you think I’d find worse than being your widow, you punk?” 

Howard graced the doctor with a beaming smile, coming over to talk to him as the couple caught each other up.

“You see it as well, right? This is your guy, Doctor, I’m sure of it.”

The truth was that Erskine was ready to believe it too, not least because Howard Stark- one of the most difficult people the doctor had ever had to work with, but also one of the most discerning- transparently liked and respected the boy and his wife after only a few hours in their company.

“It is not only my decision,” Erskine told the engineer mildly, “but I will be surprised if he does not excel.”

Howard nodded fiercely, apparently taking Barnes’ future very personally already, and doctor and engineer alike approached the frowning candidate and his wife where they were studying Howard’s models on the workshop’s long wooden desk. Bucky glanced up as they joined them, but didn’t stop the conversation that had put the unhappy crease in his brow.

“How can I just leave you, though?”

Stephanie sighed and leaned back against her husband’s chest; he took her weight like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, entwining her right hand with his. “It’s Brooklyn, Bucky, what’s going to happen that hasn’t before?”  

Bucky seemed uncertain, but Erskine thought the boy was willing to be convinced.

“Promise you’ll be here when I get back?”

“Where else would I be?”

Her husband shrugged.

“I know you. Two minutes after I'm gone you’ll be lying through your teeth at every enlistment office on the East Coast. Eventually some dumb sap'll fall for it, and then I’ll get no news at all until you turn up in Poland making the doctors cry by doing everything better than them while you yell at me for getting shot.”

Stephanie turned all the way round to smack him crossly; Bucky caught her wrist with a grin. Behind him, Stark was trying valiantly not to laugh. Stephanie included him in her unimpressed scowl.

“If you’re planning specially to get shot then of course I won’t be here, stupid. Bucky, if you need me I’ll get there if I have to join the navy to catch a ride.”

Erskine intervened before Howard could point out all the ways that would not help either of them.

“That will not be necessary,” he announced. “The SSR would do well to find some nurses who are specifically equipped to handle the soldiers this programme will produce. I would be delighted to have you, Mrs. Barnes. We can treat your symptoms as they come; I am a doctor, after all.  I will try not to cry when you prove to be more competent than me.”

He saw Stark glance at him with interest, dark gaze calculating, but the young couple grinned at each other with dawning hope. 

“Good attitude,” Bucky grinned. “What do you think, Stephanín?”

“I think it has to be your call- it’s your arm, a chéadsearc. But I'd do it.”  

"'Course you would, you're the bravest kid in Brooklyn."

James Barnes grabbed his wife in a brief, heartfelt embrace before he turned to Dr. Erskine. His arm was still around Stephanie’s waist when he spoke for both of them.

“I guess we’re in, Doc.”

As soon as Erskine nodded, Howard Stark exclaimed his approval, clapping Barnes on the shoulder and grinning at Stephanie. Erskine relayed the details of the week-long induction Barnes would have to attend and suggested that Steph could start her training with him as soon as they arrived. They looked a little overwhelmed, less at the instructions they had received than at the pace at which their plans were changing unexpectedly, but they were in bright spirits as they took their leave.

Stark had been shepherding them towards the stairs, but Barnes winked at his wife and jumped off the stage with a little yell of glee. Stephanie rolled her eyes, but when the young man offered her his hand she shook her head, leaned down and wrapped her arms around his neck. Bucky had to take two steps back, catching Steph around the waist and swinging her gently around so she didn’t graze her knees against the stage lights, but he kept them both upright and smiled at her as she laughed gaily.

“Go home, thrillseekers,” Stark advised the couple laughingly. "We’ll have much more than that for you soon, Barnes.”

Bucky met Stark’s eyes; both nodded gravely before they grinned and waved like enthusiastic schoolboys. After smiling politely at Erskine, Bucky turned to his wife, who asked again if he was sure he didn’t want his coat back. He kissed her temple in reply, making her smile even as she accused him of being a patronizing jerk, and then they began the trek home, bickering good-naturedly as they went. When Stephanie threw her head back in delighted laughter at something her husband said, the pair of them suddenly looked so young and breakable that Erskine longed to go out after them and absolutely forbid their participation. Don’t talk about this war at all, he wished he could tell them. There is no place for the likes of you down the paths you will have to follow if you get involved with the SSR. But that, he thought with a shuddering sigh, was exactly why the SSR needed them.

“I know what you’re doing, you know.”

Stark’s voice was matter-of-fact, not the least bit accusing. Erskine waited to hear what it was he thought he knew.

“You want her for Phase 2.”

Erskine found he had no problem admitting that was true. He nodded; Howard's shoulders slumped in relief.

“I told him I thought you would. I think it’s the only reason he stuck around to hear about his bit.” 

“In that case, Mr. Stark, I will support your candidate for Phase 1 if you support mine for Phase 2.”

Stark grinned, shaking the doctor’s proffered hand enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” he said with feeling, and Erskine smiled. The doctor would never tell Stark this, but it was those words that had got his attention before he’d met the man and woman whose lives were about to change completely. The doctor had been working with Howard Stark for six months, and he had never, ever, heard him say please _or_ thank you before the three times in total he had received those words today. Whatever Stark had seen in the couple whose cause he had so readily adopted, Erskine thought, it had already changed him. That was fascinating, and in a long and fruitful career Abraham Erskine had always found that what was fascinating was worth pursuing; this was all the more true when the thing itself, as in this case, was so obviously good and true.

“There are so many people fighting this war from the centre, and for the centre. I believe it will be good to hear from a young man who has spent time on the margins.”

Stark nodded affably.

“Poetic. I mostly want to see Phillips’ face when he meets them.”

Erskine laughed appreciatively; Stark seemed surprised, then shyly pleased.

* * *

 

On a dingy train bound for Brooklyn Heights, James and Stephanie Barnes discussed the things they were about to give up on the advice of two fairly strange individuals whom they'd only barely met. They could hardly tell anyone why they were leaving; Steph’s best friends, already barely speaking to her over her refusal to just be grateful that Bucky couldn’t be called up, were less likely still to forgive her for disappearing indefinitely without a word. Bucky wondered how long it would take Father Clarence, who had both baptized and married them, not to mention seeing them nearly every Sunday in between, to realize they might not be coming back. They didn't talk about leaving the apartment itself, but both were keenly aware that it was everything they had of their whole family beyond each other.

Steph sighed deeply, and Bucky frowned. 

“You know we don’t have to do this.”

She knew he didn’t really think she was changing her mind, but reassured him anyway.

“I really think we do, James B.”  

Bucky rested his cheek against her bright hair, taking her word for it, and Steph took his hand again as they watched the city lights blink by in the not-quite-dark of New York at night.

 

 


	3. responsibility and character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a flagpole, a grenade, and some good whisky: Col. Phillips is impressed, Stephanie Barnes is not, and Howard talks about his mom.

“When you and Stark brought the cripple and his barely-there sweetheart onto my base,” Colonel Chester Phillips complained to Dr. Erskine, “I thought they might be diverting for you, like a pair of songbirds to whistle while you worked. But here they are, practically running the operation. Did you set up the fiasco with the flag?”

It was a short but sorry tale. At the 5-mile point on the run all recruits had to complete, Staff Sergeant Gordon had laid out the usual conditions and stood back to enjoy the show. James Barnes, who had been keeping pace without either standing out or falling behind, had held back while the rest of the men fell on the flagpole and each other like a pack of wild dogs. Gordon had watched Barnes let his girl inspect the heavy-duty sling Dr. Erskine had devised to accommodate the boy’s useless arm during training exercises. Stephanie was only present because Agent Carter, for reasons known only to herself, had taken on the task of occupying Mrs. Barnes whenever Dr. Erskine ran out of projects for her. Phillips, who had not survived either the First World War or ten years in military command without developing a healthy sense of paranoia, couldn’t help but notice that Stephanie always had suspiciously little to do at precisely those times when Agent Carter was accompanying the SSR recruits including Private Barnes.

After the rest of the men had failed in the usual spectacular fashion, Barnes had inquired sardonically as to whether he could bring a guest if he got the flag one-handed. Aggravated by the recruit’s tone, Gordon had retorted that he’d let the whole company ride back if Barnes could retrieve the flag at all, only to stand by helplessly as the young man strolled over, yanked a single pin free and collected his prize with barely a smirk after the pole came crashing down. Barnes had handed the flag over with a slightly mocking bow, the men had cheered like he’d socked Adolf Hitler in the jaw, and Agent Carter, “grinning like a she-devil, Colonel,” had had to radio for several more cars.

Erskine looked like Christmas had come early. Phillips focused on the recruits as Gordon and Carter put them through their paces, trying not to grind his teeth.

“The boy’s smart,” he said grudgingly, “I’ll give you that much.”  

“He is also strong, and disciplined, and he does not think only of himself. He is the obvious choice.”

Before the doctor began reiterating arguments he had already made about four times in the five days they had been discussing the decision, Phillips tried to head him off by guaranteeing what he knew Erskine wanted most.

“You’re all clear for Phase 2 either way, you know. By all means do what you can so that girl will stand a fighting chance against a stiff breeze.”

“Thank you,” Erskine smiled, “but that is a separate issue.”

The colonel exhaled heavily.

“Look, if you could give him to us with both arms I’m sure I could find a use for him somewhere. But in point of fact he only has the one, when every other guy out there has two.  I say you should use Hodge or Anderson, those boys are tough.”

“Those boys are cruel,” Erskine corrected him, “and they have never shown any of my nurses the least respect.”

Gilmore Hodge had earned Agent Carter’s ire- and a broken nose- within mere hours of arriving on the base, and most of the nurses and secretaries already knew to steer well clear of Charles Anderson’s questing hands. In contrast, of course, James Barnes was the absolute darling of the women’s quarters. This was at least partly because Stephanie herself was everyone’s favourite already, and it made the troops and nurses alike smile to see the cadet’s whole face light up when her husband found his way through the door.  It did help, though, that the guy was also polite, cheerful, and unashamedly doll-dizzy for his own wife. At the same time, Phillips thought sourly, it was only in medical that anyone actually cared that much what a bunch of gossiping nurses made of a soldier’s potential.

“We’re not going to win this war with chivalry,” he snapped. In his exasperation, the colonel decided that a more illustrative inquiry was necessary on this last day of the selection process.

“These days all we have time for are guts and good instincts.” 

Demonstrating his own command of those qualities, Phillips reached into one of the crates behind Dr. Erskine, pulled the pin on a grenade and hurled it into the drill area with a brief shout of warning. The men scattered, a combination of panic and terror causing absolute pandemonium as they all but fought each other to get out of the way until James Barnes threw himself over the grenade with a grunt. There were several gasps and shouts of dismay, but no one dared move to help him. The boy stayed down, wrapped around the potentially deadly weapon in a foetal crouch.

The tension stretched and broke as the expected disaster never unfolded. The half-whispered phrase “dummy grenade” picked up volume with each repetition, and Barnes sat up slowly. He blinked furiously, as if the afternoon sunlight were suddenly too bright, and glanced accusingly from the grenade lying harmlessly in the dirt to the watching colonel. Barnes said nothing, however, but scrambled to his feet as the men around him found their wits. They began to crowd around the boy, slapping him on the back or offering him their hands in a combination of disbelieving admiration, hesitant congratulations and real gratitude.

Before Gordon could restore any kind of order, the massing soldiers parted like some biblical sea to allow Stephanie Barnes through. Her eyes were wild, her face pale except for a deep flush high on her cheeks, and she was breathing harder than seemed advisable for a girl suffering from the plethora of impairments listed in her file. Erskine started forward automatically but Barnes, unsurprisingly, got there first. Stephanie was scowling so viciously that for a moment Phillips hoped she would slap the boy soundly, but she only paused for a moment to hear his reassurances before turning her blazing anger on its real target. 

“What the hell was that?”

Even Phillips himself froze in surprise. It had been years, he thought, since anyone had dared to take him on at all, let alone in public. Certainly no mere cadet had ever tried it, much less a female cadet. The colonel found himself almost more impressed by Stephanie Barnes than he had just been by James. He decided to let the little drama play out. 

“Are you talking to me, Mrs. Barnes?”

“Yes. Sir. What kind of test is this? What's anyone supposed to learn?”

Phillips knew every eye was on him, including the damn doctor’s. He kept his answer deliberately light. 

“It wasn’t for them. I had a question; now I have an answer.”

Stephanie obviously did not find this as reasonable as Phillips did.

“Is your answer worth scaring twenty guys half to death?”

Incredibly, no one protested. Anderson was glowering and several recruits looked abashed, but in general the men seemed content to accept her characterization of their reaction as accurate rather than insulting. The colonel would have bet the programme’s entire budget that Erskine was grinning like a loon next to him, but thought it would serve his sanity better not to find out. In front of him, Stephanie Barnes was still waiting for an answer, livid glare firmly in place.

It will be for you, Phillips thought, but he limited his response to a neutral glance calculated to show the young woman that US Army colonels did not have to explain themselves to the wives of crippled candidates for strange medical experiments that were already more trouble than the results were likely to be worth.

After a moment of stunned silence, Agent Carter put a hand on Stephanie’s elbow, and the trainee nurse let herself be steered aside as Gordon called the troops back into formation. Barnes never stirred from his place in line, but he did flash his wife a quick smile before she and Peggy headed in the direction of Stark’s workshop. Phillips felt a headache building as he turned to Erskine. 

“Fine,” he snapped, keeping his voice gruff. “Schedule it. You won’t do better than these two, God help us. I hope you’re sure you can fix that damn arm, Doctor.”

Erskine nodded sagely and left the colonel to make the announcements.

* * *

That evening, Bucky found he had a whole dormitory to himself, the other recruits having been sent unceremoniously onto other tasks. The other nurses squealed and all but packed Steph’s things for her; she headed Bucky’s way without a second thought. Howard, forewarned, knocked cautiously instead of bursting in on Barnes as he had been doing throughout the week. Bucky immediately invited him in, however, and when he opened the door Howard found the couple occupying consecutive beds. Steph was sketching in her wire-bound notebook while Bucky read the biography of Nikola Tesla he had picked up in Howard’s own workshop.

“You Brooklyn types really know how to have a party,” Howard said drily, sitting down on the edge of a facing bed.

“Can I convince you to come celebrate properly? Come on, we only have a couple of hours until Erskine cuts you off. Possibly for good, you poor sucker.”

Bucky shook his head.

“We don’t really-“

“You should go,” Steph volunteered.

“You haven’t had a night out since Jack and Gary-“

She cut herself off, distressed. Bucky sighed and dragged his hand through his hair.

“You can say his name, a chroí.”

Bucky had grown up with two close friends apart from Steph, he told Howard, stroking his wife’s arm absently after she crossed from her bed to his to cuddle close in support. Both had joined up as soon as it was possible, and Jack Miller was doing real well with the medical corps somewhere in the East. Lance Corporal Gary Richards, however, had been shot down over German-controlled waters in the winter. There had been no news since January, but by this point Gary’s family didn’t need the AAF to confirm what everyone already knew.

“He always looked out for us,” Steph murmured. “Loved our Bucky like a little brother.”

Howard nodded, having little to add. Bucky, however, was beginning to smile.

“He really did, you know? He’d get such a kick out of tomorrow, he was so sure from the start that we were going to find a way to make this right. First day I was in any shape to hear it he was right there with “you’re going to work again, you’ll see, we won’t let you give up.” And he loves your father’s work, Stark. Loved, God damn it. Come on, we have to go raise a glass to my pal Gary. You wanna risk it, Stephanín?”

She shook her head, but she was smiling too.

“Have one for me if you like. I’ll make sure you actually make it into bed if you get back here before two.”

“A ghrá,” Bucky murmured like it was all he had to say on the subject, and left her with a kiss to the cheek.

They met Dr. Erskine in the hallway, but he sent them on their way with a wave and the assurance that he had just come to check on Stephanie and would happily keep her company if she wished. Howard glanced after the doctor, but there didn’t seem to be much point in pursuing his half-formed questions. Instead, he led the way to the bar, where the barkeep produced Howard’s own bottle without a word. They did drink the first toast to Gary Richards, “a really great guy, Stark, okay,” and the second to Stephanie Barnes as a matter of course. After that they nursed a double each, talking about Howard’s crazy week setting up the facility while maintaining his projects on the base. When the conversation hit a natural lull, Bucky met Howard’s eyes with careful deliberation.

“Can I ask a question, you think?”

“Just the one?”

“For now. Don’t be mad, all right? I just have to ask.”

Howard grinned automatically to cover his unease.

“Ask away, my friend.”

“Why are you doing this? I mean- why us?”

It was a good question, Howard knew. It also had several reasonable answers, but which was right? He knew ‘because you needed help, and I wanted to give it’ would only raise the boy’s hackles- both Bucky and Steph had a streak of pride longer than the Hudson; Howard had already seen them go cold and distant when someone crossed the line only they could see between friendly assistance and outright charity. There was also the obvious response, that Erskine had pushed things along because of Steph but in the end it had been Bucky’s reaction to Phillips’ near-sadistic final test that had clinched the deal- but that had little to do with Howard himself, and in any case it answered ‘how’ more than ‘why.’ He took a moment to think about who he was talking to, and realised for the first time how much James and Stephanie had been asked to take on faith. Time for real honesty, Howard thought. He told Bucky Barnes the truth.

“My mother had epilepsy.”

Bucky startled slightly but didn’t ask what that could possibly have to do with the Super Soldier initiative. Howard drew the links in his own way.

Howard Sr. had done everything right by his invalid wife, especially by the standards of the time. Eva, as was appropriate for a delicate society beauty in the 1910s, had wanted for nothing in the way of cutting-edge treatments, but her family had only seen her as often as her live-in nurse had allowed. She had been at Christmas dinner more often than not, for example, but never at her husband’s business lunches. Howard knew his father had loved his mother, but it could not change the fact that Eva Stark had breathed her last with only Anna for company, or that Howard Sr.’s response had been to name the next heavy-artillery weapon he designed after a woman who might not have survived its demonstration.

“I never wondered if there was another way,” Eva’s son finished, “until I saw you on your knees with your girl.”

“There wasn’t any other way for us either,” Bucky offered hesitantly. “We’ve only really ever had each other.”

There was such weight in that statement that Howard felt he had to do more than nod with fellow feeling.

“Listen, Barnes. Bucky. If anything happens, right- tomorrow or after. If she ever needs anything, she’ll have it, okay? My hand to God, kid.”

“You’re five years older than us, boss. And you don’t have to swear oaths, I believe you.”

They shook on it anyway.

“But nothing’s going to go wrong,” Howard reminded himself and his friend.

“It’s Stark machinery, kid- sorry, not kid- and it’s not like that damn car. We’re good to go- this time tomorrow you’ll be a new man. What are you going to do first?”

Bucky's joyful anticipation would have made Colonel Phillips crack a smile.

“I’m going to take my wife dancing,” he declared. “She’s only been waiting years for me to ask.”

 

 


	4. even a little can help a lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> phase 2 comes sooner and goes more smoothly than expected; phase 1 more than makes up for that.

Steph had expected to find the bunker full of Howard’s techs and Dr. Erskine’s other assistants by the time she and Bucky made it through the SSR's bizarre security system. Instead, they found doctor and engineer huddled together over their notes, completely alone in the two-storey space. Both raised their heads when Bucky called a cheerful greeting; Howard grinned.

“For my first trick, I’m going to defy the laws of time itself. We begin with Phase 2, ladies and gents; Phase 1 will be in an hour.”

Phase 2, as it had been explained- first to Bucky and later to Steph- was the main reason Stark Industries had become involved in Erskine’s project in the early stages. Howard’s father had his doubts about the Super Soldier initiative, but it hadn’t taken any kind of genius to recognize the medical potential of the serum. After the SSR had investigated the formula’s military potential, then, the deal was for Stark’s company to work with Erskine to develop a marketable version of the serum which would completely revolutionise the industry.

“Why are we rushing this? You said ‘maybe in a year,’ last we talked.”

Erskine didn't seem offended by Bucky's abrasive tone.

“In essence: having reviewed the efficacy of my serum, I do not think a commercial venture will be permitted. We must act now; it is likely there will be no Phase 2. Mr. Stark has, as he says, ‘run the numbers,’ and we are certain this will produce a more than adequate result.”

That sounded good, Steph thought, but Erskine wasn't done. 

“There is a war on. Everyone must make sacrifices; I do not wish to count your wife's health among mine. Will you trust me on this for now?”

“Sure, Doc. Thanks. I’m sorry.”

“No. You ask the right questions, James. I have told Colonel Phillips your instincts are excellent.”

The doctor looked at Stephanie with the benign affection that made all the other nurses tease her about being teacher’s pet.

“Are you ready, Mrs. Barnes?”

Bucky’s hand at her waist was a warm, solid reminder that she wasn’t walking into this completely blind, and of how much was riding on Erskine’s mysterious serum. If it wasn’t going to work, Steph thought, she’d rather find out this way than when Bucky dropped dead from five times the dose; if it was, then maybe she wouldn’t have to worry as much when they shut her boy in the ghastly metal coffin-thing Howard had shown them so proudly. From her point of view, then, there was really nothing to lose and everything to gain in going with her gut.

“What do I have to do?”

Not much, it turned out: Steph sat on the high examination table while the doctor gave her two injections: a moderate dose of penicillin and then what seemed like an unreasonably voluminous amount of the highly-prized, heavily-guarded blue liquid. Steph barely had to grit her teeth before it was over. A low heat rippled through her, not an unpleasant sensation, and then both Howard and Erskine were beaming expectantly while Bucky looked faintly, carefully hopeful. She blinked uncertainly and tried to figure out if she felt taller or anything.

“Do you feel different yet? It might come and go for a bit. Should stabilize over the week.”

“I don’t think so?” Steph shrugged at Howard, but her husband was already nodding.

“You’re breathing quieter.”

They all fell silent, trying to listen. Dr. Erskine reached for his stethoscope.

“Good ears as well as good instincts. There is marked improvement,” he pronounced with both professional satisfaction and real personal joy. “To your heart as well. Listen.”

She did; the sound of her own heartbeat was barely recognizable without the arrhythmia she had known all her life.

“Wow. J, you wanna-“

Apparently too excited to care who was else was there, Bucky pressed forward and dropped his head unceremoniously onto her chest. Steph glanced up self-consciously to find Howard studiously examining the dials on his console while Dr. Erskine reviewed the data in his file as though he honestly believed they might have changed. She bit back a giggle and petted her husband’s hair fondly. After a minute, he pulled away and turned to Dr. Erskine.

“Doctor. Thank you. I can’t even-“

The doctor looked hugely indulgent.

“It was gladly done. No one has ever deserved a good turn more than this young woman.”

“Amen.”

Howard mimed raising a glass in agreement and congratulations at the same time. When Dr. Erskine smiled at Stephanie, she jumped off the table to hug him exuberantly. Bucky turned to Howard for answers.

“Listen, I’m not complaining, but is that really it? One giant needle beats-”

He subsided, not seeming to know a word for “too much pain, constant fear, and endless inconvenience,” but Howard understood. Steph got the feeling he also understood that Bucky was getting ready to wear himself out overthinking things.

“I guess the SSR is just that good, ace.”

Bucky glanced between the experts for a moment, then shrugged and reached for Steph again.

“God help me, as long as this is permanent I don’t think I care.”

“Great,” Howard beamed. “Satisfied customers with no hard questions- just what we like. Now, do you guys wanna wait here or make yourselves scarce for a bit? I have to get this show on the road if we’re gonna be set up by the time the big-shots get here.”

They considered going for a walk instead of hanging around, but Red Hook was just a shade too near their old haunts for them to risk being seen. Erskine, who had no such limitations, declared his intention to see the sun while he could and left with a wink. Steph and Bucky did their best to stay out of the way, looking on curiously and sometimes nervously as piece after piece of never-before-seen technological wizardry was primed under Howard’s watchful eye.

“You’re very quiet, Stephanín.”

“I’m fine. I’ll feel better when you come out of this in one piece.”

It wasn’t like Bucky didn’t know _that_ feeling, so they sat in companionable silence as people they had only ever seen in newspapers filed into the viewing gallery. Peggy waved from a front-row seat, and Howard broke out of Serious Business mode to point out Colonel Phillips on his best behavior, smile growing ever more strained the as he shook hands with too many phony politicians. Finally, everything was ready.

“Showtime,” Howard muttered. “Let’s make it good, ace. Your first promotion’s practically guaranteed.”

The demonstration probably did make for stellar viewing, Steph thought. Dr. Erskine introduced the project while two male orderlies eased Bucky into the contraption she had spent most of the morning trying not to think about. Steph herself administered the penicillin, wincing at the rows and rows of needles being maneuvered into place.

“I feel like I got the better deal, J.”

“I get vita-rays though. Whatever they are.”

It probably shouldn’t have been allowed, but Erskine let his nurse yank her gloves off to hold her husband’s hand as the “micro-injections” did their work, hanging on as Bucky hissed unhappily through his teeth. After that it was Howard’s time to show off, and Steph very nearly rolled her eyes at the pure theatricality of turning the saturation chamber 90 degrees so the experiment’s final stage would be done as if the patient were on his feet. That, she thought petulantly, could not possibly serve any scientific purpose. Steph resolved to torture Howard about it at length as soon as Bucky was free and clear.

Dr. Erskine offered her a pair of the heavy-duty shades Howard and his team were wearing and indicated the raised platform in front of the chamber. She took her position and found she could just see Bucky's face. He winked at her; she nodded at the doctor.

“Now, Mr. Stark.”

From the outside it probably seemed like nothing was changing, but Steph was well placed to see her husband’s eyes squeeze shut and begin to tear.

“You’re okay,” she muttered, just loudly enough for him and maybe Dr. Erskine.  “You’re fine, a thaisce.”

She saw Howard’s head jerk up in her peripheral vision; apparently he could hear her too.

Everyone present heard Bucky’s strangled cry of pain as Howard’s dial reached seventy percent.

“These readings are crazy,” Howard warned Erskine in an undertone Steph didn’t think she was meant to hear. “I don’t think his blood pressure should be doing that. We should stop-”

“No, he can do this.”

“Are you sure? Steph-"

Bucky’s eyes were fever-bright with pain, but they were lucid.

“He’s looking right at me. He’s fine.”

“The lady knows him best,” Howard said dubiously. At Erskine’s somewhat tentative nod, he turned the dial as far as it would go.

The light in the chamber grew so bright that even with her goggles on Steph had to turn away, but after only seconds of trying to will her own watering eyes to work better than was physically possible Steph opened them again to find the room in darkness. Howard rushed to reassure her.

“It’s okay. It’s done, we did it. We're golden, Mrs. B.”

Howard didn’t wait for Erskine’s command. The audience craned forward as the chamber opened. Seconds later, their confused disappointment was clearly audible.

Bucky was much the same- maybe slightly taller, his lean form a little more solidly muscle-bound, but not really super-human in the way Erskine’s description had led everyone to anticipate.  

Of considerably more concern to his wife was the fact that the patient was barely conscious, his chest heaving from the effort of withstanding …whatever he had had to withstand.

“Did it work?”

The senator who asked what most of the gallery was wondering didn’t sound convinced. Steph thought someone muttered “For this we drove out to Brooklyn?” but it was hard to tell whether she was really hearing better than she ever had or just giving voice to her own insecurities as she worried about Bucky. He took an experimental step forward and she reached out to offer support if it was needed. Steph wasn’t the only one who gasped when he caught her arm left-handed.

Both she and Bucky froze, their gazes connecting and disconnecting as Steph watched her husband glance back and forth between her excited eyes and his fingers wrapped around her wrist for the first time in five and a half years. Howard jumped to his feet; Peggy Carter began to clap enthusiastically in the gallery. Soon, almost everyone was applauding. When Dr. Erskine put a hand on Stephanie’s shoulder, Bucky finally managed to focus for more than a half-second.  

“Congratulations, Sergeant Barnes.”

Sergeant Barnes smiled a hazy, happy smile but didn’t seem up to speaking.

“Thank you,” Steph said for him. Erskine gestured expectantly, knowing Steph was at least as eager as he was to investigate the serum’s success. Steph laid her other hand on top of Bucky’s newly restored one.

“James, gimme.” 

Heedless of a whole floor of onlookers, the recent cripple caught his wife up in both arms and swung her in a wide, joyful circle. His movements were sure and graceful, perhaps a little more coordinated than might be expected, but those present agreed that the subject looked much more like a young man in love than like the guy who would personally escort Adolf Hitler to the gates of Hell. Erskine’s formula would certainly change the medical game, they saw at once, but whether the experiment was worth the investment from a military perspective was another question.

Colonel Phillips crossed the room to shake Dr. Erskine’s hand.

“Good for you, Abraham." As the doctor smiled warmly, knowing Phillips understood, the colonel continued for everyone's benefit.

“How about that? I can’t imagine Berlin will like knowing our boys don’t have to worry about amputation anymore.”

The gathered dignitaries, until so recently just coolly skeptical, took this as a cue to surge forward to congratulate both Howard and Dr. Erskine in the most effusive terms. A couple of generals demanded a clearer explanation of why James Barnes was not now seven feet tall; Erskine suggested serenely that rewriting the subject's nervous system had changed the nature, but not the quality, of cellular regeneration during the serum/saturation interaction. Steph and Bucky blinked at each other and decided their original stand would do- as long as it lasted, they could be content to rely on Howard for jargon-laden hows and whys. Perhaps unsurprisingly, not a lot of people tried to talk to her or Bucky in spite of the curious, excited looks thrown their way. Steph found she couldn't complain, however- being almost completely ignored left Bucky free to pull her close with his right hand, as he had always done, and to cup her jaw with his left, as he hadn’t ever, yet.

Later, Steph would wonder despairingly how she had ever imagined that a morning which had begun with the contraband sharing of a secret serum could end with a long-awaited kiss. Much more in keeping with the general tone and theme of the SSR, their stolen moment was shattered when Dr. Erskine cried out in alarm.

“Everyone get down! There are live explosives here!”

Their attacker had not expected to be made out so soon. Reacting in panic rather than because it was a good idea, the unnerved assailant opened fire on the crowd. Howard, sighing disgustedly at everyone else’s sheer inefficiency, grabbed a shrieking nurse and a cowering senator and thrust them both towards the console table for cover. Bucky had reached for Steph automatically, but let her up as soon as it became clear that no one else was going to get a handle on things.

“He’s on the stairs,” she reported in case anyone was listening. Bucky nodded and tried without much success to point a painfully green marshal in the right direction.

“I can’t,” the wretched boy was wailing, slumped against Steph's husband. “I don’t-”

Steph shook her head in exasperation and snatched the gun out of the hapless soldier’s hands. Bucky, nodding decisively, left her to it as he steered the half-swooning marshal to safety. She heard him check in with the men behind them.

“Where’s Stark got to now? Doc, you have to-”

Steph raised her weapon just as the unknown gunman took aim so close over her shoulder that their eyes almost met. Realising too well what was at stake, Steph pulled the trigger without hesitation. She hit the guy in the shoulder twice, but he managed at least one shot before dropping his sidearm with a cry. He took off up the stairs, but Peggy was ready. A single low-angled shot brought the man crashing to the ground at last.

“Son of a gun.”

Stephanie directed her most demure Sunday-school-at-St-Charles smile at Colonel Phillips.

“Didn’t Agent Carter tell you she’s been teaching me how to shoot? We had to find something to do while the boys were running around with flags and grenades and all.”

A dismayed clamour distracted them before Phillips could reply. The mole crumpled to the ground at the top of the stairs, spitting incomprehensible slogans through foaming lips.

“Cyanide pill,” Peggy shouted helplessly. “Sounds like he was HYDRA.”

The Colonel bit off a curse and stalked over to investigate.

“Stephanie?” She caught Bucky’s faltering whisper, remembered “she’ll be a widow or worse” from only a week earlier, and turned with her heart in her throat. It wasn’t her husband on the ground, however, but the other man of the hour. There was no need to ask what had happened: Erskine lay prone on the ground, an ugly chest wound staining his lab coat and a good portion of the bunker floor with his blood. Bucky was supporting the doctor’s head while Howard hovered in the background, glaring at anyone who got too close.

“I’m sorry,” Steph choked as she crouched next to Bucky. “I’m so sorry.”

“No.” Erskine reached out unsteadily to point at Steph’s hand, already enclosed in her husband’s.

“Gladly done.”

The doctor let out a breath that ended in a rattle they could not fail to understand.

“God,” Howard muttered. They stayed where they were, a shocked tableau of loss at the centre of the chaos raging around them, until Phillips came to monitor the orderlies taking Abraham Erskine’s body into military custody. 

“Damn shame,” the Colonel said concisely. Both Bucky and Howard nodded jerkily; Steph appealed to him with desperate fervour.

“Please, when you go after the guys who did this- we need to go with.”

Contrary to all expectations, quite likely including his own, Phillips agreed readily.

“God knows you three-“ the jerk of his head included Howard- “were in the minority who kept your heads in this mess. We can use anyone who can shoot like that, Mrs. Barnes. Sergeant- well, I told Erskine yes, didn’t I? Stark’s already on my top team.”

Steph was beginning to sag against her husband, who was supporting her effortlessly but kept glancing curiously at his left arm like he wasn’t sure why it was cooperating with him. The Colonel looked very tired.  

“You two should head back to base while we clean up here. Try to keep a low profile; we don’t need any more theatrics. We’ll brief you in the morning. Well done here, both of you. Best get used to that arm, boy.” 

Even Bucky couldn’t charm the SSR driver into taking them anywhere but back to base, so back to base was where they went. Stephanie blinked at the unexpected addition to the dormitory's minimal furnishings. 

“Why do they think we need a gramophone?”

“Because Howard Stark is good people, that’s why.”

It took Bucky no more than two minutes to make his selection from the records Howard had asked his assistant to send with the player. Steph recognized Novello’s _Land of Might-Have-Been_ from its very first mournful strains. It was an old tune, slow and solemn as a hymn- and in fact she had always been half convinced the lyrics were about Heaven. Steph put her arms around Bucky’s neck and grumbled at him until he held her close and swayed with her. If it could be called a dance at all it was the slowest of slow drags, deeply intimate but not very jazzy by any stretch. When Stephanie started to cry, her husband touched his forehead to hers with a soft sigh, saying nothing until she spoke.

“He knew, J. I know he could see it.”

“See what, a chroí?”

“That my first thought was thank God it wasn’t you.”

“Stephanie, I know you don’t think “thank God my husband’s still alive” is the same as being happy Doc Erskine died.”

Steph flinched at hearing it so plainly stated, but the guilt that had been almost physically bearing down on her began to ease in light of Bucky’s guileless confidence. 

“We have to take them down, Bucky. You and me, for him.”

“Sounds good to me. And we won't have to call you Steve, I don't think.”

As Novello’s vocals gave way to the forlorn fading cadences of piano and strings, Steph rested her head against her husband’s shoulder so she could watch his face without giving up proximity. When Bucky jerked in surprise, glancing at his wife like she had worked some kind of witchcraft while his left hand clenched and unclenched at her waist as if he had suddenly remembered he could feel it again, Steph found it wasn’t too soon to smile and mean it. 


	5. until they're home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the new super-soldier sees real action; it's not much fun for anyone.

As the effects of the serum made themselves known in full, it turned out Bucky could do a lot more than just use his once-immobile arm. He passed just about every endurance test Stark and Phillips devised between them, and they discovered that he could also run faster, jump higher and lift more than he ever had before. Still more miraculous, though, was the fact that Steph could do those things too now. Agent Barnes, as she was now, was by many accounts barely recognisable as the nursing cadet who had shown up in late March. In physical terms Bucky thought his wife might be an inch or so taller, but what really showed was that Steph finally had enough weight on her bones to develop actual muscle tone. In the early days he thought Peggy might have been waiting for him to throw a fit that his wife no longer needed someone to physically shield her from half the things they came across, but Agent Carter quickly realised that Bucky was at least as excited as Steph herself that she could do things like clock a seven minute mile or climb a rope ladder within regulation time. She had always been the most beautiful girl in the world, and he had done his best to make sure she knew it, but the sight of his own Stephanie radiant with triumph at not having to fight her own body to do what she wanted- Phillips had not been impressed with Bucky for bringing Howard’s investigation to a crashing halt, but there were circumstances under which a man just couldn’t do anything but kiss his wife until she clung to him.

Things proceeded in this vein for some time, Steph learning the ropes in Peggy's tactical division while Phillips put Bucky through a physical regime so dire that there were days when his aching limbs almost made him nostalgic for six years' numb inaction. Phillips had been clear on one thing very early on: strategically, he thought both Steph and Bucky should just stay in America, where Schmidt couldn't possibly get his hands on the serum they already knew HYDRA was willing to kill for. There were two reasons, however, why Phillips was prepared to put up with them against his better judgment. One was out of all their hands: the army wanted to see some kind of pay-off on the massive and so far anti-climactic investment it had made in Erskine's life's work, and soon. The other was what Phillips had said to Steph the day Erskine had died- he had given his word to a man he considered his friend, and it was plain to see that both Steph and Bucky were absolutely serious about having a score to settle with Schmidt and HYDRA. No one had to tell Chester Phillips that wars couldn't be won relying on wishy-washy emotional drama, but even the keenest strategists acknowledged that proper motivation made all the difference in dire straits. Instead of banning them from ever setting foot in Europe, then, Phillips worked dilligently with Bucky- and to a lesser extent with Steph- to discover ways in which they could exploit the strengths of the serum without obviously giving the game away. Conveniently and perhaps ironically- Steph had laughed, anyway- Bucky had turned out to be really good with a rifle. This, Phillips decided, was perfect- specialising in long-range weaponry would help Bucky hide the abilities they didn't want Schmidt to notice, but would still allow him to work exactly the kind of infiltration and extraction jobs they were being prepared for.

Or so they thought, anyway, until Senator Brandt turned up with new orders from Washington. Effective immediately, they would operate out of London- bringing them closer to the action, the senator said cheerfully. As an additional spanner in the works, Brandt cast a dubious glance at Bucky's sergeant's stripes and reminded the colonel that the SSR was an elite operation- "commissioned officers only, Chester. I don't make the rules." 

To make matters worse, Brandt seemed wholly disinterested in Phillips' explanation of the SSR's preliminary strategy, spending the meeting leering across the table instead. Steph was so stiff with discomfort that Bucky wondered how much trouble he would be in if he threw his switch knife at the man bankrolling their 'elite operation,' but it didn’t come to that. The briefing ended prematurely, Phillips apparently giving up and deciding he would try again without Washington’s meddlers distracting half his team. Unfortunately, Brandt made a beeline for Steph and Bucky before they could flee to safety.

“You’re being entirely wasted hidden away with these secret-ops guys, my dear. How would you like to serve your country on the most important battlefield of the war?”

“She's already doing that."

Brandt breezed past Peggy’s interjection like she had never spoken, but Steph shot her a grateful smile.

“I can offer you a much more comfortable position, you know.” 

Steph cringed; Bucky decided it was time for the Brooklyn ganglander act and draped a possessive arm across his wife's shoulders with a view to getting her out of there regardless of ettiquette. Brandt, shockingly enough, completely failed to take the hint.

“I could make you a star. A symbol. Enlistment lines would be around the block if the men could just get a load of your-”

The senator’s tone would have a lot to take on its own, but it had was combined with a raking stare that left Steph- Stephanie, who had spent weeks in an army barracks without batting an eyelid- tucking herself against her husband in distress. Bucky stepped away from his wife and laid the guy flat before Brandt realised he had swung his fist. The girl who would never now be a star cried “Bucky!” in a tone that was much more admiring than reproachful. Howard doubled over in gloating hysterics; Agent Carter pinched the bridge of her nose with a little huff. Brandt’s aide demanded that his boss’s vicious attacker be arrested without delay.

“Can’t.” Phillips sounded so bland that he might easily have been discussing the summer's projected wheat harvest.

“Barnes here is special ops. Discipline's strictly confidential. Good day to you both.”

The senator had little choice but to get up and get out. 

“We're headed for London- except for you, Barnes. Can’t avoid experience in the field- you can’t lead a team unless you’ve been on one, so we’re sending you out with the 109th\- I’m told they’re good guys, and they’ll be working closely with us on this. Agent Barnes will keep training with Agent Carter, since they work so well together.”

Steph and Bucky both nodded smartly, but Phillips caught Bucky’s anxious sideways glance and glowered.

“You won’t always get to do this holding hands- I'm not running a dance hall. Especially as a commissioned officer, boy.”

Apparently Phillips had that kind of authority. Bucky's orders were simple: Second Lieutenant James Barnes would do his time on the ground mainly as a long-range marksman for Captain Winslow's company. Unofficially- a lot of what the SSR did was unofficial, Howard noted cheerfully- Bucky would also be a tactical advisor as Winslow's men closed in, Phillips hoped, on some of Schmidt's. Pointing out that he only had two months' training in dealing with HYDRA, tactically or otherwise, won him the dry reminder that having seen a HYDRA agent in the flesh at all practically made him an expert, relatively speaking. As in so many other things, Bucky thought but didn't say, it wasn't enough, but it was all they had. He nodded again, and before he had really grasped what was going on they were watching the gleaming English coastline creep up on them, Steph dozing intermittently against his shoulder while Bucky tried hard not to wonder what the hell he was doing. 

“We will look after her, you know. You don't have to act like she might just disappear in your absence.”

Bucky would have told Agent Carter that Steph Rogers knew how to handle herself, or that he’d actually already had the latter conversation with her, but he was unexpectedly choked up. Three months was not a lifetime, he knew that, but it was longer by half than they’d ever been apart. Taking a breath, he tried for his best I’m-Bucky-Barnes-and-I-fear-nothing-except-maybe-asthma grin.

“Think you can stop Stark from blowing himself up as well or is that too much to ask of one person?”

She said she would attempt it, which seemed generous. Steph mumbled something aggravated about noisy dockers who should shut up and get some rest. Bucky kissed her temple, winked at Agent Carter, and zipped his lips obediently. He didn’t really try to sleep, but listening to Steph breathing without having to work for it was plenty relaxing on its own.

When they landed, it became clear how different things were closer to the Front. The trucks were already being loaded; Bucky was given an hour rather than the day they had expected before he would have to leave with his new squad. Bucky barely had time to glance in on Steph’s new quarters and remind Howard that he had promised him a set of throwing knives when he got back before they were realising they didn’t know how to say goodbye.

“If you miss your ride I’m coming to get you.”

“You or Steve?”

“Shut up. Don’t do anything stupid while you’re gone, okay? I want my husband back.”

“Beloved, I hear and obey.”

She snorted.

“That’ll be the day. Go with the blessing, James B.”

“Mo ghrá thú, Stephanie.”

“Come on, kiss her already!”

Steph raised her eyebrows at the guys waiting and watching from the truck; Bucky shrugged and leaned in with a grin. Stephanie, because she was the most swell dame who had ever lived, caught his face in her hands and made it really count. The men who would be Bucky’s team cheered, his wife smiled at him like nothing else mattered in the world, and then his brand-new superior officer was barking his name and he had to jog over and let the others haul him up and pat him on the back good-naturedly. He accepted their ragging along with their congratulations; they watched Steph wave until Peggy and Howard distracted her as the truck turned out of sight.

“Okay,” Lieutenant Barnes said to himself, setting his jaw. “Enough now. Fight this fight, see all the Rembrandts, go back to Brooklyn. That's not so hard.”

“Amen,” muttered First Sergeant Matthew Jackson from next to him; they shook on it for lack of any other way to intensify the sentiment.

In a bunch of ways, Bucky quickly discovered, army life was not that different from working on the docks. Mostly they woke in the dark and collapsed where they were allowed as soon as it was allowed; in between they hauled heavy things from point to point and tried not to get on each other's nerves. Perhaps the biggest change off-duty was being in a position of relative authority. Bucky had always been the baby of George Henley’s crew, and after the accident the guys had been especially determined to make sure he never came to harm again. Steph, of course, had found it adorable and encouraged it shamelessly; Bucky had never quite shaken the feeling that so much coddling, however well-intentioned, meant that people doubted he could do his job. In the army, though- his superiors had been instructed to defer to him on some subjects, the guys his age admired his rank- which made Bucky feel endlessly guilty, but they didn’t seem to mind that he may or may not have got his commission by punching a senator- and within a week some of the younger guys had shown up with a some miscellaneous sharp objects and asked shyly if Lieutenant Barnes would maybe teach them to throw too. He felt the lack of Steph like the loss of another limb, but it wasn't like he wished she were there with them.

The simplest truth couldn’t be avoided: war was Hell, and they were all idiots for joining up. Bucky was learning to take things like an officially sanctioned ‘acceptable casualty rate' in stride without reaching for his knife, but he hoped he never got used to the reality of it. They didn’t lose too many men, all told, but watching the younger guys’ easy laughter fade steadily into tight smiles and bitter smirks as time went on wasn’t great either. In an effort to remember why he was there at all, Bucky wrote letters they couldn’t safely send and imagined Steph laughing raucously at his sudden sentimentality. Things carried on that way, more or less, until Captain Winslow announced with a triumphant grin that they had finally received real orders. It would be July soon, meaning they had been creeping slowly HYDRA-wards for nearly two months, and they were officially ready to tangle.

“This isn’t right,” Bucky hissed a few hours later, not for the first time. "We're too close for it to be this quiet. They have to know we’re here.”

Winslow shook his head; sometimes, he had already lamented more than once, it seemed like the tactical guys were specially trained to jump at shadows.

“Relax, Barnes. HYDRA’s just a buncha cultists with an interest in big fish. We’ll net the lot of them and get you back to your colleen before the leaves fall, you’ll see.”

Bucky stood his ground. Jackson, who had been watching the argument with a growing frown, stood uncertainly next to him. The captain sighed and started forward.

“I'm going to follow our orders. You ladies can catch up after you've adjusted your drawers.”

Bucky, glaring after Winslow, directed his response to Jackson.

“I’m right about this. You wanna head back?”

The sergeant glanced doubtfully between Bucky, tense and earnest, and Captain Winslow, striding heroically onward.

“I think that’s insubordination.”

Winslow stepped out of the shadows ahead of them- there was a flash of light unlike any weapon Bucky had ever seen, and the captain fell with a harsh scream. Barnes and Jackson jumped apart as a similar beam split the ground between them.

“What the hell was-“

“We still have a first lieutenant, Jackson?”

“Not since-”

“Then it's not insubordination, pal. Take anyone you can and get out of here. Stay together and head back to base. Go on.”

“You’re not thinking of joining them? Barnes, that’s-”

“Can’t just leave the guys he sent ahead, can I? For God’s sake make sure someone tells my girl I love her.”

He took off running as soon as Jackson nodded. Skirting the trees as they had been taught, Bucky somehow made it to the centre of the action without getting shot. He looked for a way to join the fight, but the guys on the ground, outmanouvered, outnumbered and outgunned, were being forced into a clearing by shots like the one that had taken Winslow out. These were obviously being directed from the treeline; with a mental shrug, Bucky headed upwards too. He found a reasonably stable perch in one of the spreading oaks that made the forest so hellish to navigate. Two of the HYDRA gunners fell victim to his recently acquired but already beloved semi-automatic before a third pinpointed his location. Bucky spotted the glint of the weird cannon’s muzzle in the distance and leapt for it in time to narrowly avoid being turned to ash along with half of the once stately tree. He dropped and rolled, but the fight was over by the time he was on his feet. Another squad’s commander had made the call, and Bucky’s guys had seen little choice but to surrender with them. Trusting in HYDRA’s mercy was a terrible idea, of course, but the alternatives were not a lot better. Bucky slipped into the crowd and found a place among his boys for the slow march wherever they were going.

“You’ve been saying it was a trap for miles. Why’d you come anyway?”

Tommy Coley was a founding member of Bucky’s growing troop of knife-wielding teenage scrappers. Steph would love him, Bucky knew- he was bright as a day-old dime, sharp as tacks, and virtually irrepressible. Right now, though, he was the picture of concerned bewilderment, that expression tempered only by the pure terror Tommy was obviously trying to defeat by willpower alone. Bucky tried to smile encouragingly; he guessed it was about as convincing as it had ever been when Steph was delirious with fever or three good coughs away from asphyxiation.

“Couldn’t let you win the war without me. You good, Coley?”

“Sure am, Cap.”

Bucky peered at Tommy incredulously; the boy shrugged.

“Winslow’s dead, ain’t he? So you’re Captain now. There's no one else.”

He shook his head helplessly while the others, overhearing, reacted with the careful balance of sympathy and congratulations that had to accompany any field promotion. From 4-F to Captain in the US Army in less than half a year, Bucky thought ruefully. It had only cost good men their lives.

They were led to a pair of high black gates which looked more likely to conceal some kind of Gothic fortress than the modern facility Bucky had assumed would be more HYDRA’s speed. He didn’t find out immediately, however- the gates did open, but only to admit a car that seemed absurdly over-designed. It definitely wasn't anything Art Deco or futurist, Bucky thought with the hilarity of the completely helpless. The aesthetic did made more sense once the car’s owner stepped out in an equally over-the-top leather ensemble. Bucky glared at Tommy until the kid swallowed his skeptical laughter with a repentant nod.

“My name is Johann Schmidt,” the creepy commander announced. Bucky’s head shot up before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to know that name. His guys had seen his reaction, though. Tommy frowned and shoved him roughly backwards into their group as if that could hide him, and the others caught on and dragged him farther back regardless of his protests and threats. Luckily, Schmidt hadn’t so much as looked their way yet.  

“Welcome to Austria. I believe the men of your 109th company are here? I am very anxious to meet one of your number. Whoever introduces me to James Barnes will go free today with no conditions. My car will take you to the border, if you wish. You may even take a friend.”

“He’s not here. Took the others back to base.”

Schmidt sighed.

“Soldiers and their ideas about loyalty. But do you hold your comrades in as high regard as they hold you?”

His his hand shot out, and there was a murmur of dismay among the men. Thomas Coley swallowed visibly as Schmidt’s pistol ground against his temple, but he let a toothy grin suggest he had no regrets about speaking out. The Nazi spoke pleasantly.

“Brave boy. Not intelligent, perhaps, but brave. I’m waiting, Barnes.”

Dr. Erskine’s erstwhile employer/experiment was already tightening his finger on the trigger when a poorly muffled fight broke out toward the back of the bedraggled group. They heard the crack of bone, a yell of pain, and then a dark-haired youth with striking grey eyes broke away from the scuffle, turning to Schmidt after a last warning look at his friends. Someone was still objecting vocally, but the young man acted as though no one else stood behind him.

“Right here. James Barnes. Captain, apparently. Don’t hurt the kid.”

The gun went off. Several hardened soldiers flinched as Corporal Coley’s body hit the ground.

“Christ,” Bucky choked. Schmidt ignored the interruption to smirk at his ashen prisoner.

“Do not presume to give me orders. I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Captain.”

He turned to his guards.

“If they can comport themselves like civilised men instead of Americans, you may release them when Dr. Zola gives the order.”

* * *

“He’s not here,” Steph muttered. She had been beside herself for hours, maybe days- from the moment they'd been told they were finally going to rendezvous with the 109th. When they reached the designated base, however, the SSR team hadn't needed to be told that all was not well with the company. Phillips had hurried off to investigate and Howard had been seconded to engineering as soon as he'd been recognized. Steph and Peggy had been left to survey the troops with growing alarm. The men they saw were too quiet, too bitterly hurt, and way too few in number, huddling together as they half-heartedly harassed some government hack trying to rouse their spirits with an ill-conceived spiel about war bonds.

"Peggy, he's not here."

Checking in with the medical staff- just in case- they found not Bucky but the guy Steph had last seen sitting next to her husband. Jackson was a lot worse for wear with a bullet in his shoulder and a cruel gash in his leg, but he seemed happy to see her. She shook his good hand obligingly and resisted the urge to shake the injured man until he answered the questions she dared not ask.

“We’re only here because of your husband. I’m supposed to tell you he loves you. Like you don’t know that. Never seen a guy so gone for his gal.”

It felt like the world was changing axes; Peggy pushed Steph into the nearest chair. 

“Do you know where Barnes is now?”

“Nowhere good.”

Phillips entered with Howard in tow, waved off Jackson’s efforts at proper military ettiquette, and led his agents into the doctor’s empty office so they could talk in relative privacy. The 109th had gone up against HYDRA and come out much the worse for it, he reported- only fifty guys of 200 had made it back. They had good reason to believe that Schmidt’s objective had been to take the regiment alive, but they had no way to know who had made it.

“We’re going after him anyway. Can’t let them get that damn serum. I assume you want in?”

“Doesn’t taking Stephanie out there double their chances of getting the damn serum?”

“Too bad. I told him I’d be there if he needed me. You can’t brief anyone else in time anyway, Peg.”

“It’s more than that,” Howard added. “I’ve just seen their tech- there’s no way we can take them on as we are. We have to keep this so quiet they won’t know we’ve come until we’re gone. It has to be us, Carter.”

Phillips nodded, unusually content to let Stark run the show. He did, however, throw Steph a measured look.

“Mrs. Barnes- I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you do realise he might already be dead.”

Stephanie had long known she would never forget the whole weeks of 1937 during which she couldn’t have said whether she was trying not to hope or trying not to give up hope as the doctors themselves wondered if her boy would wake again. She pushed aside the still-vivid memory of Gary wringing his hands in helpless compassion, swallowed the scream that felt like it had been rising in her throat since they'd arrived, and addressed Colonel Phillips with studied composure.

“He's beaten long odds before, sir. Even if he doesn't I'd rather bring him home than let HYDRA take him to bits or turn him into some kind of weapon.”

Her boss came very close to smiling at her.

“Good luck, Agent Barnes, Agent Carter. Stark-  do me a favour: don't start any explosions until you’re back in your lab.”

“Why does everyone say that?”

“Because they’ve met you,” Steph suggested. “Come on, we have to go now. It’s Bucky- the longer we wait the surer he is to do something idiotic.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more endearments because apparently that's just how these people talk: 'a thaisce' from the last chapter is 'my treasure,' which I reckon is something Sarah Rogers would have said to them a lot, 'a chara' means 'my friend,' and 'mo ghrá thú' is (obviously?) 'I love you.'


	6. make it do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph goes to get what's hers; the 109th sees some quite strange things.

Instead of running for the first available plane like Steph would have preferred, Howard went storeroom diving and produced some salvaged German uniforms that had seen better days. He went to work on standard-issue jackboots until Steph and Peggy could reach military-standard heights, but the results were not spectacular. Howard was fairly imposing in the Schutzstaffel blacks, but Peggy and Steph, even with their hair hidden under mismatched helmets, just looked like women in half-hearted drag.

Plan B proved more workable thanks in large part to Howard’s sterling education: Schneider, the German Master at his elite boarding school, had been known to fail any student who couldn’t produce a satisfactory Hochdeutscher accent, and Howard Stark Sr. had impressed upon his son very early that Stark men didn’t fail however demented their teachers were. By the time they were halfway to Austria, Howard had been asked whether he was from Bremen four different times. Peggy did her best to play the devoted SS wife, but it was her little sister in the back who attracted widespread admiration. Steph smiled prettily and tried to seem like she was following the conversation as Howard agreed that Steffi was indeed a true Aryan beauty who would most definitely make a certain soldier in the Reich very happy, and soon, if only they could be on their way now, bitte. The modified jackboots, like their various handguns, went unseen under the huge travelling cloak sweet young Stephanie was using as a blanket of sorts.

 Eventually the towns petered off into little villages which in turn gave way to the deserted tracks Jackson and his men had marked out for them from memory. They abandoned the car in the interest of discretion, and quickly discovered it was lucky they had: they weren’t the only people working late that night. The black gates were still some ways ahead, the clearing behind them, when Peggy hissed and pointed at the dark-clad HYDRA underlings working along a path leading away from the base.

“Peggy, they can’t be-”  
“Planting mines, yes.”  
“That’s going to make getting out that way a lot harder,” Howard muttered, but then his eyes fixed on the empty trucks and he smiled wickedly.  
“but the front gate's good too. Tell you what, getting in’s gonna be a snap.”

* * *

 The Howling Commandos were not impressed at being dragged out of their cell by an aggressive HYDRA commander and his slightly twitchy aide.

“Inspection,” the commander said sharply, giving no explanation for why such a thing would happen at three in the morning. As the men filed out of the cell in resentful compliance, the commander stuck out his baton and knocked Dum Dum Dugan’s hat right off his head with a little chortle. Real original, Dugan groaned internally as he bent to retrieve it. Puzzlingly, the officer bent with him but didn’t harass him any further. Because he was a glutton for punishment- there was a reason Timothy’s nickname was Dum Dum- Dugan spoke his mind.  

“You know, Fritz, one of these days I’m gonna have a stick of my own.”  
“Sure, pal.” The HYDRA agent with a pencil moustache and straight-up Long Island accent grinned broadly as Dugan took a step back in astonishment.  
“How about today? We’re gonna need your help with this. I was gonna offer you guys guns, but sticks will do fine.”  
Behind them, Gabe Jones began to smile as well.

The prisoners who were already awake roused their comrades with a mixture of alarm and the excitement that came of knowing that any change was preferable to a routine which seemed all too likely to end in execution or worse. The first group of men had been led away without any kind of explanation, but instead of two soldiers a whole squad of HYDRA underlings had returned to oversee the transfer- they hoped- of the entire cell block to some other location. Every so often, someone would rally, but the squadron must have been armed with serious threats because every man who tried to start something subsided almost as soon as one of the masked men leaned close and muttered probably-sinister things.

 From the upper-level confinement unit he shared with some of the younger guys, Bucky watched the proceedings with a growing frown. They had received precious little good news on Arnim Zola's base, and none of that had come from a late-night call-out. The group of HYDRA operatives headed towards them was a strange mix of armoured guards and prison wardens, as far as he could tell from their uniforms. Most were much more heavily armed than was normal within the cell block, and as Bucky envisioned the carnage that could too easily result he decided enough was enough. He pushed his way to the front of the cell, ignoring the protests of his diminished company, and addressed the lanky soldier unlocking the door.

“You don’t have to do this. Zola doesn't need the others, I’m-”  
“Bucky.”

The men of the 109th stared in bewildered dismay as the death squad’s leader yanked his mask off, caught the startled Captain’s face in gloved hands and kissed him like they were both drowning and Barnes had all the oxygen. More disturbing still was how quickly Bucky melted into it, grasping the agent's leather-clad hips with all the confidence of long familiarity as he gave as good as he got against the invading lips. The HYDRA goons didn’t know what to make of it either, exchanging distinctly unmilitary shrugs and smirks. Before anyone could get close enough to knock one or both of them out- for the Captain’s own good, obviously- the mismatched couple broke apart and the HYDRA officer spoke again. With more words to go on and without the interference of the mask, it was a lot clearer that the speaker was distinctly American and definitely female.

“I thought you were dead.”  
“Stephanie, what are you even doing here?”  
“Breaking you out, genius. Come on, we're trying to do this without kicking up a fuss. What’s wrong with your guys?”  
“Bombshell-shock,” one of the guys muttered under his breath. “Never woulda guessed your missus was into leather, Cap.”  
“Watch your mouth, Evans.”  
Bucky’s severe tone was at odds with his encouraging smile.  
“You kids be careful. Tell Stark we haven't died- we'll get Farleigh and catch up to you in the clearing.”

The company must have known what that meant and why it was important because they followed Dugan’s costumed team without a word of protest. Steph, assuming her husband knew what he was doing, obligingly marched him down the corridor at gunpoint.

“I remember you smaller, Agent Steph.”  
“Howard made these boots, they hurt like all get-out but I think I’m taller’n him in them.”  
“He make the outfits too?”   
“Would you believe they keep spares of everything in their trucks? It’s like they don’t expect people to just climb in the back. Howard put on his fancy German voice and asked for some trucks and a storeroom key and they handed it all over, he just had to fill in a form. Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?”

Bucky sobered at once.

“There’s an isolation ward this way, one of my guys is there.”

His voice was calm, but Steph had known James Barnes all her life.

“They’re experimenting on him.”  
“Yeah. For the serum. Goddamn Farleigh took the fall when they asked for James Barnes.”

Steph’s step faltered as her knees went weak at the thought of it, but she didn’t say a word and Bucky didn’t call her on it.

They found the injured soldier mumbling Captain Barnes’ name and rank through chapped lips showing bloody teeth. The man strapped to the table was taller than Steph's husband and broader at the shoulders, but they would have matched the same general description. Steph didn’t think Bucky had realised yet how close Farleigh was to death.

“Barnes-”  
“Yeah, Mike. Hey, we’re gonna get you out of here.”  
“Don't think so.”  
Farleigh’s glassy eyes slid towards the stump of what had been his left arm.  
“They think Erskine failed. Didn’t like that. I din’t like’t either.”

Bucky looked away as if he could unmake the truth by unseeing it; Steph caught his hand and kept her voice serum-low.

“He’s already in shock.”  
“Christ,” Bucky muttered, and Farleigh’s expression grew urgent.  
“I’m sorry about Coley. I never thought he’d-“

Bucky let go of Steph’s hand to grab Farleigh’s so fast that Steph winced in anticipation, but her husband’s grip was as careful as it was determined.

“Shut up. That wasn’t you, all right? Schmidt’s a sick bastard, every one of us knows that.”  
“He was so young,” Farleigh whispered. Bucky closed his eyes, and Steph saw too clearly what the last few months had demanded of him.  
“Tommy was a good kid.”

Farleigh smiled a faraway smile.

“You’ll tell Angie I love her.”

Bucky said he would. Mike’s daughter down in Philadelphia would be four in October. Steph could only offer desperate, silent sympathy as her husband held the dying man’s hand tight, asking easy questions about Angela and her mother until Michael Farleigh was beyond answering.

“Christ,” Bucky said again when it was over. Stephanie leaned over to rest her chin on his shoulder. He was trembling finely, but his shoulders were squared for a fight.  
“One more stop, Steph, okay? They're not getting Angie’s da for free.”

* * *

 “I know we look the part,” Peggy admitted as she yanked her helmet off at last, “but I really didn’t think that was going to work.”

“It hasn’t yet,” Howard fretted. “The longer we wait the more likely someone is to actually read that form. Where the hell are they?”

Right on cue, the boys in the back of the last truck to leave gave a quickly-muted cheer as their hero and his wife finally came into view. No one asked where Mike Farleigh was. 

“Go now,” Bucky advised by way of greeting. “The guys at the gate are getting real hot under the collar.”

Howard Stark had never needed much incentive to drive fast.

“You’re late, Agent Barnes.”  
“We made it, didn’t we? And we brought presents!”

Steph offered Peggy the satchel she had been carrying, Opening it revealed a stack of maps and charts, as well as a leather-bound notebook. Peggy actually gasped as she pulled out shipment schedules, store locations and, best of all, a detailed map of HYDRA’s storage and experimental facilities.  

“Everything’s here,” she breathed. “This is more than we’ve ever had on Schmidt. How on Earth did you find this?”

Among other jobs, the prisoners had been assigned to work on the maintenance of the facility’s printing presses. Keeping his head down and working diligently, Bucky had managed to get assigned regular duty long enough to sneak a decent look at the plates. After that, it had taken some covert peering about and a couple of wild guesses, but Bucky had been reasonably sure that the resulting prints were stored in the so-called Map Room in Block C by the time he and Steph broke in optimistically.

“Either they never thought a dumb Yank would understand what he was seeing or they figured it didn’t matter since I wasn’t gonna get to tell anyone either way.”

Steph shuddered, thinking of the mines Zola's lackeys had been burying, and clasped her husband’s shoulder to remind herself that he was safely out of HYDRA custody. Bucky, cross-legged on the floor with his guys while Steph and Peggy were seated on the raised bench that ran the length of the truck, unbent his legs and pushed back until he could rest his head on his wife's knee. Steph moved her hand from his shoulder to his cheek to keep him there.

“You two are quite sickening together,” Peggy observed neutrally.

They could hear Howard laughing from up front; the portion of Bucky’s teenage entourage that was still awake bristled in loyal affront. Stephanie, appearing much less wholly unapproachable with her hair loose about her shoulders and her husband's head mostly in her lap, stuck her tongue out at Agent Carter like she was eight years old and losing an argument about baseball. Bucky let it all wash over him without trying to formulate his own response, allowing the warm weight of his wife's hand to be his tether to real life.

* * *

 Behind the high gates, an irate lieutenant demanded to know which idiot had allowed “Herr Schneider” to take four trucks off base, never mind nearly 200 prisoners, without demanding either a first name or any proof of identity. The requisition forms, filled out meticulously in bold cursive, helpfully provided more personal details than anyone could desire on behalf of various characters from Wagner’s _Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg._ A disoriented Dr. Zola gave the cranky order to release the tanks, but the immediate vicinity had long been deserted. By the time they stumbled upon the abandoned trucks the next morning, the security team wore the resigned expression of men who knew that their days in HYDRA's employ were not so much numbered as rapidly approaching single digits.

* * *

 A few nights later, when they had made good progress along the circuitous route Phillips had approved, Howard pulled Cap and 'Mrs. Cap' aside and handed Bucky the mysteriously-procured key to some hotel room. Their first instinct was to protest- it wasn’t fair, Steph said, and Bucky couldn’t just leave his boys- but the best of Brooklyn proved no match against the combined force of Howard Stark, Agent Carter, and about forty other enthusiastically supportive voices. Without any further warning, they found themselves alone for the first time in more than four months. Stephanie thought it was fair enough that her husband should take longer than normal in the en-suite considering he probably hadn’t seen real facilities in longer than she could bear to think about, but after a little bit she glanced in anyway, just for her own peace of mind. She found Bucky frozen in front of the mirror, staring at the blade in his hand like he had never seen a straight razor before. Cautiously, Steph came to stand next to him and laid a gentle hand on his wrist. Her husband caught her eye in the mirror.

“Hi,” he murmured, sounding unsure. Deciding that a man who couldn't manage basic greetings had no place handling sharp objects, Steph tugged the razor from Bucky's unresisting grip. He said nothing as Steph went to work, watching her in the mirror as she pressed the sharp edge to his cheek with the skill and ease of remembered habit- it was just another thing she'd gladly taken on until Bucky had learnt to manage one-handed. Steph’s breath caught when he tipped his head back for her without a second thought, but when Bucky raised a questioning eyebrow she just shook her head, touched her lips to his smooth-again jaw and went back to work with meticulous attention. That her poor shaken James still trusted her so completely was a gift for both of them, she thought; Steph wouldn't be the one to remind him of why she had expected him to put up more resistance to a knife against his throat.

“There,” she said when she was done and they were both adjusting to the restoration of normalcy that came with Bucky's being clean-shaven for the first time in way too long.    
“You see? You’re fine. You’re perfect, my James."  
Bucky turned to her with almost his own irrepressible smile.   
“Yeah? You know what, Steph of Stephs, I think you’re biased.”  
He kissed her then, the first time since she'd got him back that Bucky had leaned in before she did.  
“Steph Rogers, you know you’ve always been my hero, right?”  
Stephanie laughed, partly because she thought she might cry if she didn’t.  
“That’s not my name anymore. Mo ghrá thú, Bucky Barnes.”  
“Do chéadsearc,” he said as though she needed reminding; Steph smiled warmly. Bucky let her lead him into the other room, docile as a kitten when she all but ordered him to bed. He pulled Steph close as soon as she came to lie beside him, sighing into her hair.

“Stephanie, tá mo chroí istigh ionat.”  
“I know, a Shéamais.”

Her James closed his eyes at last. Stephanie whispered the quickest additional prayer of thanks, just for that moment, and kissed his shoulder mainly because it was there, in reach again, at last. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is less of a whole chapter and more of a series of separate bits? oh well I guess it's time to get episodic anyway if we're going to cover two years in the next half. more Gaelic: 'do' is 'your,' he says 'I love you' in a different and slightly more overblown form (literally 'my heart is within you' instead of 'you are my love'), and at the end she says 'my James.'  
> ALSO hahaha this poster why. surely you can take your trousers off before you get them mended without compromising the war effort, guy.


	7. my husband wants me to do my part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the SSR in Washington basks in reflected glory; the people who won it get time off.

As Colonel Phillips' attending officer on a meeting so private that even his personal assistants had had to be dismissed, Peggy Carter knew she had never been as delighted with a response to military honours as she was with James Barnes’.  Washington, beyond impressed with the SSR’s monumental coup, had sent word that the Captain was to receive not only his official promotion but also a medal for valour and the high honour of leading the crack team which would take HYDRA on in the months to come. Bucky listened politely to the news, shook his head firmly and pointed out that it should be Steph’s team, really, because she was the only one of the people who had done the actual rescuing who could realistically hold a permanent position in the field. That much was true- Howard had acquitted himself magnificently, of course, but it was clear that he was of much more use behind the scenes, and Peggy herself had by both chance and choice generally avoided that kind of fieldwork.

Colonel Phillips retorted that the SSR was rewarding Barnes for information gained, not for lives saved, and that while everyone who mattered knew that Mrs. Captain Barnes was integral to the guy’s longevity Phillips had as much chance of convincing Brandt and his colleagues to give a leadership role to an ex-nursing cadet as to Gabriel Jones or Jim Morita. Furthermore, the colonel argued as Barnes’ scowl deepened, the SSR had a vested interest in seeing their most risky investment so far turn a profit. When the captain stiffened at the very mention of the serum, Phillips tried a different approach.

“You know any number of those boys would go to their deaths for you, no question.”

Bucky jumped to his feet, face flushed with anger, and practically swore that if one other person ever had to ‘go to their death for him’ he would be through with the SSR, HYDRA be damned. Peggy couldn’t remember ever seeing Colonel Phillips look as genuinely fond of a man under his command as he did after that declaration.

“And that’s why you’re the guy they want to follow. Let Brandt call it what he wants- you and I know why those men are still cheering for Captain America instead of trying to forget everything about that prison.”

The colonel smirked as Barnes ducked his head with a half-hearted glower; they both knew the captain would accept the position, and excel himself in it.

“Fine,” Bucky sighed, “but if it doesn’t say ‘Captain Barnes’ on those orders I’m not following one word of them.”

Phillips said he’d see what he could do, and Peggy really thought he might have winked as Barnes saluted. Bucky offered Peggy an inclusive shrug, as if to say he was glad he’d tried, at least, and they made their way back to Steph and Howard to report that they were officially on leave until further notice.

“How long do you expect they’ll keep calling you that?” 

“Until I die, probably, since they know I wish they wouldn't. Why, d’you want a terrible nickname too?”

The fourth time someone had called Bucky ‘Captain America’ within their hearing, Howard had snapped and demanded an explanation from the nearest survivor of Zola’s camp. Corporal Ralston had told the story with a beaming grin.

“Kid’s a f—beg pardon, Mrs. Cap, Agent Carter- he’s a bleeding-heart patriot, is why. It was weeks and weeks ago. Really rough day, no water, no news, Schmidt and Zola screamin’ at each other an’ all we can make out is “Barnes” and “serum” and “formula.” Check on our boy to see how he’s takin’ it and what does he say? “There should be fireworks tonight, guys, you know?” Rest of us didn’t even know it was the fourth. Waitin’ to die in a f—in a weapons dump in ever-lovin’ Austria, and all the Captain wants is fireworks for Uncle Sam. If that doesn’t goddamn lift your spirits. Cheered the guys right up.”

“What would be the point? You won’t do better than Lady Liberty.”

Stephanie, who knew much better than the rest of them why James Barnes never forgot Independence Day, had declared it an excellent nickname. In a stroke of real tactical brilliance, Bucky took his revenge by casually suggesting that Lady Liberty was another excellent nickname, especially for the girl who had broken Captain America out of prison. Given the captain's ever-present escort of adoring fans, it hadn’t taken long for that to stick too.

Bucky admitted that Peggy was right in a tone that suggested he didn’t only mean about the nickname, but it didn’t stop him from trying to come up with something workable. By the time they reached engineering, Peggy had very firmly declined to be called Great Britannia, Union Jane, London Lass and the slightly desperate The Agent-C.

“Your husband is quite mad,” she reported as Stark seized Bucky’s arm and dragged him off to test the blades he was working on as though the very fate of the free world hung in their delicately weighted balance.

“But he is also a hero, and very good at what he does.”

Steph didn’t seem dazzled by the revelation.

“Is that what your super secret meeting was about? We knew all that already. Do they think he’s crazy because of Brandt? I thought that was pretty sensible.”

Once Peggy had clarified who thought what about Captain Barnes, their conversation drifted towards leave- what they could and couldn’t do, how long it was likely to last and whether anyone would realise Stark was on leave at all since he’d almost certainly spend every day in one of his workshops regardless of where they were or why. They were discussing the plausibility of going to London before Peggy and Howard actually had to report so that Bucky could see more of it than an airfield when some of the captain’s unshakeable attendants turned up wearing matching expressions of woe. Cap had promised to come to Evans’ boxing match, they moaned, but they couldn't remind him because Mr. Stark had rules about people wandering through his lab.

Lady Liberty’s intercession did the trick, as everyone present had known it would, and the lot of them wandered out into the training grounds where the men were already massing for the fight. Howard’s assistants goggled at the sight of their boss at a rec meet, in daylight no less, but otherwise they attracted little attention until after Private Evans had won both of his scheduled matches. Just as the audience was beginning to disperse, the boys of the 109th ganged up on their captain and practically forced him into the ring. Bucky was still objecting when Howard started laying odds in his best announcer’s voice, and cheer went up that was so deafening Peggy thought it might be a security risk. Steph held out a hand to take his shirt and kissed his cheek for luck even though no one really believed Captain Barnes would need it. In fact, the first round barely resembled boxing at all- with Evans exhausted and Barnes unwilling to land a punch, the match began like some form of Dada-inspired choreography set to Howard Stark’s gleefully mocking commentary. 

“This is embarrassing," Bucky grumbled. He peered into the crowd. “Whitman, Reade, Murdoch, come back this idiot up. You want one more?”

Three was plenty, Evans  insisted, and it was on. Peggy had never seen the appeal of combat for leisure- there were quite enough men striving to violently injure each other in professional capacities. When Captain Barnes finally stopped hiding nine-tenths of his ability, though, she suddenly saw its merit as a spectator sport. It still wasn’t much like boxing, since it was four-on-one; Peggy thought of her Uncle Peter, who liked to tell a completely unverifiable story about a solitary lion fighting off a pack of hyenas somewhere in Botswana. The senior staff yelled friendly criticism and beamed when Bucky took as much of their advice as he could; the younger guys roared their support as their idol unknowingly vindicated weeks of happy vicarious bragging as he put his boys through their paces without actually doing much damage. 

“If he’d stop going easy on ‘em,” Ralston opined, “that upper-cut would be fucking poetry.”

Coming from Robert Ralston that was practically poetry in itself, but it wasn’t Bucky’s upper-cut the women in the audience were talking about.

“Mm, those arms,” a nurse sighed from close by. “Wonder what it’d be like to-”

“I’ll let you know,” another voice practically purred. Peggy narrowed her eyes, but the secretary in question wasn’t exactly looking her way.

“If you’re very nice to me I might tell you about his-”

“Lorraine! He’s a married man.”

Peggy decided she probably wouldn’t shoot the nurse.

“It’s a free country, Mary, isn’t that what we’re all fighting for? No one’s going to tell the Captain’s wife-”

“Tell me what?”

Stephanie's gaze flicked between the two flustered women with genial curiosity. Peggy answered for them.

“Lorraine here has a lot of opinions about your husband’s-”

“Arms,” Mary almost wailed. “He has real nice arms, Mrs. Barnes. Very…strong. Looking.”

Lorraine rolled her eyes as Peggy suppressed the urge to draw her weapon. Stephanie tilted her head at them all, probably wondering how her husband’s arms could generate this much controversy outside the context of the serum. She turned to examine Captain Barnes as he resisted a three-way tackle with a grunt of exertion.

“They’re alright, I guess. I always think he’s got nice shoulders. And he has the best eyes. Good hands, too.” 

She glanced back when no one replied and found her audience staring at her like she had lost her mind. Steph had the gall to laugh when she recognised Peggy’s indignation for what it was.

“Aw, ease up, Agent Carter. Why shouldn’t they look? I do it all the time. Not really at his arms, though. It’s not like it bothers him-  jerk can spot a HYDRA trap from however many miles off but he never seems to know when someone’s got her eye on him. Ugh, they keep getting at him from the left- I think he forgets he can use that arm. Get back in the game, Barnes, these guys are making you look like a Giants fan!”

Her husband left off paying attention to the fight at all so he could stop to grin at Stephanie before settling into an attacking stance. He shook his head regretfully.

“Sorry, guys. There’s Dodgers pride at stake now.”

It was over very quickly after that. Unlike Evans, Bucky spared no time for the admiration of his peers: once Howard declared the match in his favour, the Captain shook his ecstatic victims’ hands and then stalked over to his wife in mostly-mock outrage.

“Like a Giants fan? How does that work in boxing? Hi Agent-C; Nurse Ellis. Nurse Ellis's friend.”

“You know that wasn't real boxing, right? Like a Giants fan, all hot air. Not much, I dunno, substance.”

“Wretched woman! I’ll show you substance.”

Stephanie Barnes darted away, giggling like a little girl; her husband gave chase with precisely the smitten half-smile that had half the women on the base sighing covetuously. Bucky had almost caught up to Steph when they reached the sheds a little ways away, and Peggy suspected it was just as well that they were out of sight and out of earshot by the time he did. Agent Carter caught Lorraine’s disdainful sniff and discovered that she was not above rubbing salt into a wound if the situation merited it.

“I'd say he knows,” she told the sullen secretary. “He just doesn’t care.”

* * *

Their three weeks off passed almost distressingly quickly, as on-base leave was wont to do. They never made it down to London, not least because Steph and Bucky were occupied meeting potential team members and Howard seemed loathe to leave his local projects before he had to. When Peggy realised that they would be leaving in only two days, and that they had no way to know when they’d see the Captain and Mrs. Barnes again, she resolved to make the weekend a good one.

“I need to borrow your wife,” she announced after dinner. “And you need to borrow a jacket. Not from Howard. We’re going dancing, and you two are going to be spectacular.”

“You saying Howard Stark’s too swank for my James?”

“No, too short. Eight o’clock, Captain, Mr. Stark. Don’t be late.”

When the girls arrived, they found their young men already standing by the bar. Stark was in one of his bespoke suits while Captain Barnes was unusually put together in his dress uniform. Howard whistled through his teeth in appreciation at the pair of them, but Bucky actually took an entranced step forward. Peggy was wearing the red dress that she knew turned heads; Stephanie had chosen a less daring number in a deep Egyptian blue with cream-coloured detailing. She was also wearing her hair styled in large ringlets for the first time in her life, hairspray having never been an option thanks to her asthma. Captain Barnes, it seemed, appreciated his wife in curls.

“Hey,” he started a touch unsteadily. “If you’re not the prettiest dame in this dive. Can I get ya somethin’ to drink or will we skip right to the dancin’?”

Peggy would have demanded how long they’d been there, or how far into the whisky they'd got over the afternoon, but she knew for a fact that alcohol had no effect on James Barnes now. She was smirking by the time Steph answered, and maliciously half-hoping that the secretarial staff would stop by at some point over the evening.

“You can relax,” Stephanie smiled, taking her husband’s arm. “You’ve already got me where you want me, soldier.”

Howard’s eyebrows hit his hairline; Peggy thought hers might have found a way to leave her head. The Captain murmured something only Steph could hear, the couple leaning together so intimately that their foreheads were practically touching as they made their way towards the polished dance floor.  

“Nauseating as the plague.”

Howard handed her a whisky on the rocks without commenting on whether the plague was in fact nausea-inducing and touched his glass to hers.

 

“You know I’ve never done this in heels before.” 

“Yeah, but you raided a military base in higher shoes than those.”

Bucky let his voice drop low, drawling additional reassurance like he was suddenly channelling Clyde Barrow.

“Don’t worry, little darlin’, we can go slow. I'm gonna make this real good for ya, babydoll, okay?”

Steph’s shriek of laughter turned half the heads in the bar.

“You’re completely crazy, Captain Barnes.”

“Crazy for you, Liberty belle.”

"Bucky, that's worse than Lady Liberty."

They weren’t especially good dancers, but it turned out that swing wasn’t so hard when you were already fairly coordinated, not worried about your partner dropping or maiming you, and surrounded by couples who were much more drunk. By the time they took a break Peggy and Howard had given up monitoring them like middle-aged chaperones and were dancing themselves; Bucky looked so positively hopeful that Steph had no choice but to kiss him, slowly and sweetly.

“Leave it, Buck. I don’t think it’s like that.”

“I didn’t say one word, Stephanín. You wanna go again?”

She shook her head, smiling slightly.

“I’m going to bed. I’ve had the strangest few weeks, James. If you want to come with, though-” her voice turned suddenly husky- “I could make it good for you, maybe.”

She laughed again, more quietly this time, when Bucky’s gaze automatically dropped to her mouth, his arm tightening momentarily around her waist.

“That’s not fair,” he complained, pouting. “It sounds so much better when you say it.”

 

“They’re really not bad for beginners,” Peggy decreed. She and Howard watched the pride of US special-ops slip away with all the subtlety and finesse of a pair of over-excited teenagers.

“It’s not that surprising,” Howard argued, dipping her theatrically. “Don’t people say dancing’s mostly about having the right partner? They’re old hands at that.”

  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe because it's valentine's day this one is fluff with fluff and extra fluff. also, boxing. ish.


	8. he's watching you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph turns out to like leather quite a lot after all, Colonel Phillips tries to trust his and other people's instincts, Izzy Cohen becomes the first person to shoot Captain America, and Johann Schmidt does not love 1944 so far.

“No. No way. Stark’s been breathing exhaust for too long. Stephanie, that’s an Uncle Sam costume made for Peter Pan. A child would be able to see you in the dark. There is no way-“

“Don’t have a heart attack, he sent the same in black, with real pants instead of tights. Note says ‘Die-hard patriot like your husband should appreciate some good ol’ red-white-and-blue.’ Guess not, huh?”

“He thinks he’s funny. Did he send you a torch too?”

“Dunno, he says he’ll send the heavy-duty stuff down to the lab in a couple weeks. Try yours on, I wanna see how that jacket works.”

Happily for everyone, Howard had resisted applying the stars and stripes theme to Bucky’s heavily armoured ensemble. The outfit began with black variations on the standard issue military shirt and slacks reinforced at the knees and elbows and treated, Howard said, with flame retardant. Over these went black leather boots, a utility belt designed to hold everything from Bucky’s beloved switchblade to extra ammunition, and the double-breasted mostly-leather jacket Steph was so curious about. This was padded with some kind of state-of-the-art patent-pending fibre which Howard insisted did more against shrapnel and even actual bullets than a flak jacket. Steph had one of these as well, but where hers was deliberately over-large the captain’s had to allow him the greatest possible range of movement in close combat. The resulting garment was not quite a trench coat but certainly not an aviator's jacket, fitting snug over the captain’s hips but ending just low enough to offer as much cover as possible without slowing Bucky down. 

“Yeah.” He dropped into a crouch and sprang back to his feet, turning quickly to see how the jacket moved with him.

“This’ll do just fine. Whatcha think, too much black and leather?”

“Well done, Mr. Stark,” Stephanie murmured in a breathy voice that had only ever meant good things for James Barnes. Bucky grinned and started back towards her, enjoying the hungry kind of appreciation in her brilliant eyes.  

“Black and leather’s a good look for you.” She came to meet him, reaching immediately for the buttons he had only just done up.

“He got you just right, J, this jacket is exactly like you.”

“Stuffed with weird science stuff we can’t pronounce or explain?”

“No, idiot. All dark and strong like my own Brooklyn docker man.”  

In spite of Steph’s approval, the much-lauded jacket soon hit the ground, followed unceremoniously by its owner’s shirt and vest. She grabbed his belt and yanked so insistently that Bucky stumbled forward, steadying both of them with a hand at her waist. Once that had been dealt with, tossed to the ground like it had offended her personally, Steph grinned and tackled her husband backwards without any other warning. Bucky could have resisted, of course, but he wasn’t a complete moron.

“Flexible, too. Soft in all the right places.”

Steph sounded thoroughly approving.

“You trying to seduce me, Mrs. Barnes?”

“I think that ship has sailed, Buck.”

It was hard to argue with that considering Bucky was on his back in his boots and trousers- which were getting a hell of an introduction to daily use- while his wife, still fully dressed, knelt over him and surveyed her prize with possessive satisfaction. Being the object of Steph Rogers’ undivided attention was a heady thing, not least because Bucky knew- he lived it, really, carried it with him like a soul-deep truth- that he was the only one in all the world who knew her this way. Not just turned on, though that was its own kind of near religious experience, but Stephanie in her purest form, free to go for what she wanted with both hands and trust him to follow. Which was almost literally true in the present case.

“Forget Mr. Stark,” Steph corrected herself as she ran a proprietary hand over Bucky’s chest. The light scrape of her nails sent happy little sparks of anticipation through him as she grinned down at her husband.

“Well done, Mrs. Barnes. Stephanie Maire, what a dreamboat you have here.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, which might have looked defiant if he weren’t already flushed and yearning beneath her.

“Yeah? What're ya gonna do with him, you think?”

Steph settled over her husband, watching her willing captive with grinning, predatory satisfaction.

“I’ve got some ideas.”

* * *

It wasn’t altogether surprising, Colonel Phillips thought, that James Barnes responded to the invitation to select “the best and brightest the army has to offer” by choosing his team entirely from the men who had been in prison with him.

“Alright,” Phillips just about managed to say instead of groaning, “Tell me what your people do.”

They did a lot of things. Phillips already knew that the Captain and Agent Barnes were both trained for long-range marksmanship, but that the Captain could be at least as deadly in close quarters while his wife was most dangerous as an infiltrator of the first order. Private Gabriel Jones- a hulking brawler who was good with a gun but better still in unarmed combat- had exactly the kind of cool head and steady hand that Phillips suspected might be essential in a team that was, for all intents and purposes, being led by newlyweds. Dum Dum Dugan had served with Jones before, and the fact that the guy had started out as a circus strong man probably made him uniquely qualified to work with Barnes and Barnes.

Because having a woman, a black guy and a circus freak on a team led by an ex-cripple wasn’t enough diversity, there was also Jim Morita, a trained ranger who had led his own Nisei squadron before their run-in with Schmidt, and Montgomery Falsworth, an Englishman so gratingly upper-crust that he made Peggy Carter seem like Orphan Annie. Fortunately, Falsworth was also a dab hand at both espionage and hand-to-hand combat; Phillips strongly suspected it was his ability to spar with Bucky, dagger-to-switchblade, that had clinched his place on the Captain’s team.

“Anything else? Some chorus girls, maybe, an actor or a pastor or a werewolf? An Egyptian mummy? I’m kidding about the priest, Agent Barnes.”

Stephanie closed her mouth, disappointed. Bucky patted her arm consolingly, and Phillips tried not to wonder how many crowded, German-speaking churches the pair of them would be risking life and limb to attend when he wasn’t on hand to glare them into submission and point them towards an army chaplain. The others appeared more concerned that the colonel hadn’t said he was kidding about the werewolf or the mummy.

They made the most rag-tag of motley crews, but each of them was a good, capable guy and their different skills and styles balanced well together. Good instincts, he remembered Erskine saying what felt like years ago. It also counted in the Captain’s favour, Phillips thought, that he had flatly refused to take any of his band of devotees with him. Everyone on the base had heard that Barnes had called his boys to order and told them, kindly but uncompromisingly, that he was not going to be the reason they went back into the nightmare they had so narrowly escaped. They’d go anyway, they swore, but their usually easy-going captain had been immovable as midnight. Go on, he’d ordered them, and promised to thrash them himself, but only after the war, if he got wind of them doing anything crazy to get his attention.

“Aren’t we good enough for you, Cap?”

“The best,” he had admitted roughly. “Just like our Tommy was the best. I can’t do that again, guys, okay? It’s bad enough going up against Schmidt with Stephanie-”

Every retelling mentioned how the captain’s voice had actually broken, and how his rapt audience had suddenly understood, most of them for the first time, that fighting side by side with the girl you loved didn’t only mean laughing banter and stolen kisses behind storage sheds. Their rebellion had cooled into sympathy and resignation at that, and Simon Reade had been the one to murmur their thanks and promise they’d make him proud. By way of showing that this dismissal wasn’t any kind of rejection, Bucky had divided his new throwing knives between them with stern instructions to use them well, keep them safe and clean them sometimes, for heaven’s sake, so he’d still have a complete set when they met again. Touched and a little awed, Bucky’s boys had responded with a smarter salute than any commander would get out of them again before the war was over. Their Lady Liberty was ankle-deep in wildflowers before the last of them had been re-assigned.

“I’m going to approve it. Good luck, gentlemen and Lady.”

Bucky grinned, Steph glared, and the others saluted dutifully before they dispersed for their last few days on base.

* * *

Steph tilted her head and took her hand from Bucky’s to tap the matt metal disc Howard had sent for them.

“Is he being sarcastic? I said your defence was weak on the left so he made you an honest-to-God shield. Does he think Schmidt’s going to come after us with a sword and lance?”

Isadore Cohen, whom Steph and Bucky knew as Howard’s chief assistant but who was something of a mechanical genius in his own right, came to the shield’s defence at once.

“This is the rarest metal known to man. Vibranium- stronger than steel, but a third of the weight. It’s completely vibration resistant. Go on, try it.”

“Vibranium,” Bucky echoed dubiously, but his face changed as he lifted the shield. He swung it experimentally, marveling at its weight and balance, and then grabbed his wife and pulled her close, hauling the shield in front of them both to see how much cover it could afford that way. She mimed aiming her gun over his arm, and they grinned at each other and the shield. Cohen, gratified at their newfound respect for Howard’s gift, rewarded them by handing over the note Howard had sent with the shield. Bucky read about half of it before turning to Steph with an expression she knew meant something completely ridiculous was about to follow.

“He says ‘Get Mrs. Cap to shoot while you’re holding it. From _5 yards away_ there’s no impact.' He underlined that bit. 'No ricochet at all. It works, we did it on this side. Tell Steph I can see her glaring but I’m not brave enough to say things like this unless I’m sure you’ll both survive.’ Do you think ‘we’ is him and Agent Carter?”

He looked at her hopefully, but Steph was already shaking her head firmly.

“That’s a terrible idea. Bucky, I’m not going to shoot you.”

“Not me, the shield!”

“No, a Shéamais.”

“But he says-”

“I’ll do it!”

Izzy Cohen grabbed a pistol off the worktop and fired three enthusiastic shots so quickly that Bucky only just had time to raise the shield, Steph ducking behind it with him, before they made contact. Bucky was braced to feel the aftershocks all the way up his arm, but Howard had been right- the casings hit the ground, completely flattened by contact with the shield, but it felt like nothing had happened.

Slowly, Bucky lowered the shield and checked on Stephanie, who stepped away from him to glare viciously at Cohen. 

“If you ever raise a gun at my husband again, I will shoot you. Even if he asked you to.”

She stalked out of the workshop without a backward glance. Bucky followed, nodding at the shield he was still holding.

“We’re taking this with, yeah?”

“Sure, pal. Whatever you say.”

Izzy and the technicians watched them go in pin-drop silence.

* * *

So far, 1944 was not going as well as the previous year had led Johann Schmidt to hope. The year had begun with coup after coup, from the successful harnessing of the Tesseract to the assassination of that traitor the Americans called Erskine. The Führer was happily occupied with his Total War, leaving Schmidt to conduct his trials and make quiet expansionary gestures unhindered. Everything had begun to unravel, however, around the time the wretched Zola had lost some 200 prisoners of war- unimportant in themselves, which was why the doctor was still breathing, but unsettling in the implication that Schmidt’s systems could be thwarted. That whole exercise had been hugely disappointing in any case- the Americans’ “super soldier” Barnes had been strong, strapping and brave to the point of foolishness, but displayed none of Schmidt’s own abilities. Zola theorized that the formula’s promotion of cell regeneration had been centred on repairing the soldier’s arm, an argument which was no more satisfactory for being soundly reasoned. The experiment over and their security compromised, they had had no choice but to destroy the base. At the time, Schmidt had been angry but considered the problem a minor setback; this too had proven to be a miscalculation. The blathering, simpering report he was having to grit his teeth through was the worst kind of proof. 

“I am sorry, Herr Schmidt. They really are like a ghost team- the wardens saw nothing until the attack was in progress.”

It was how most of the organization referred to the saboteurs of whom they had found no trace for the first months of their existence. The day would start normally and end with widespread panic as weapons were stolen, objects rearranged and, still more gallingly, strange taunting notes left in different offices. Some wondered aloud why HYDRA was written like an acronym if it stood for nothing, another suggested that Dr. Zola try wearing lifts in his boots for added height, and one explained in an injured tone that an octopus with a skull for a head was not in fact a hydra at all.

HYDRA had responded with its standard practice- destroy the base as soon as it was compromised- until Schmidt woke up in a cold sweat with the realisation that his opponents were deliberately doing just enough damage to have him take care of the rest. They were laughing their way to an Allied victory on Germany’s defence budget, and Schmidt hadn’t  even thought of it until weeks later. That very hour he had given the order to evacuate and destroy every base that had been mentioned in writing before the raids began. Zola had argued in his mincing, short-sighted way that such a step would set his research back by years; Schmidt had made it clear that if the Allies continued to make such swift and deadly progress it wouldn’t just be Zola’s research that was at risk. 

There had been no reaction from the Allies- encrypted radio contained neither panicked reports nor falsely confident “situation normal” bluster, and Schmidt’s contacts in the SS reported no secret overtures from any quarter- but Hitler and his circle had not been impressed in the least. They imposed budget cuts, safety limitations- they sent their people to check on Schmidt and breathe down Zola’s neck so often that Schmidt began to wonder whether the saboteurs had not been Nazi operatives the entire time. It had almost been a relief when they had reappeared in a different capacity as winter began to turn into spring.  

A HYDRA team had surrounded some pathetic group of British airmen, kept docile by a sniper picking off the rowdier ones for his own entertainment, when an unseen shooter had killed the HYDRA marksman right there at his perch. There had followed a short and dirty fight, a bizarre combination of close-range explosives, long-range shooting and some shockingly deadly knife-work. The pilots had rallied, the HYDRA team had been decimated, and after the fact they could not say where their attackers had either come from or gone. At first Schmidt had assumed they were a different team entirely- their styles could not have been more disparate- but the descriptions that filtered through as these interventions became more and more common along the Western front gave first Zola and then Schmidt pause. No one could say who was leading the team- suggestions ranged from a large Negro to a tiny grenadier; when someone described a red-headed walrus in a bowler hat Zola had paled and Schmidt had growled with anger. At least they knew where this ghost team had got its information, the Red Skull had thought, and who was to blame for it.

“And what was it this time?”

It had been a prison break, executed according to the model that had served the ghost team best of late: they broke in and armed the prisoners with such stealth that HYDRA had no idea the disaster was upon them until all hell broke loose. What was different, however, was how close the Americans had come to losing one of their own.

The delicate, dangerous gunman who moved so quickly that the first sight of him was often the last had pursued an advantage that left him separated from his peers, and the HYDRA guards had seen an opportunity to impress Herr Schmidt. Improbably, however, the boy had had been able to hold most of them off with just a shield, of all things, and sheer agility. HYDRA had already noticed that the Americans did not like to kill unless they had to, but on this occasion half the men harassing the cornered teenager were dead before they realized there was a marksman in their midst. The odds thus evened, the American team had overwhelmed the others, and true to form they had not killed anyone who surrendered willingly.

As the walrus and the Negro forced the prisoners into the cells they had previously been guarding, the other men had crowded around their younger comrade and loudly lamented his injuries. The boy had protested, his friends had protested right back, and what the German prisoners saw as unforgivable chaos among military men had reigned until an unassuming younger man with a rifle slung over his shoulder stepped forward and the entire team fell silent.

“Rogers. Didn’t I say that was a damn stupid thing to do?”

The boy had stiffened in annoyance, visibly biting back a retort, and rolled his eyes extravagantly. The Captain had taken a step forward, but instead of pistol-whipping the youth for insolence like the prisoners had half expected the commander had pulled the teenager into a brief, crushing hug. They hadn’t said anything else; the burly black man had guided the boy towards medical attention with the same solicitousness the others showed, and the Captain had maintained his authoritative calm until the prison had been safely transferred into Allied custody. He didn’t seem exceptional, the survivors reported, except in that he must be to be able to command a team like that without so much as speaking.    

“So they do have a leader. Do you have a name or will I have to inquire with every Rogers in the US Army?”

The messenger hesitated. They had only heard his name the once, he faltered, when the men they had freed raised a cheer of thanks and celebration, and perhaps it had been a joke. Schmidt cleared his throat impatiently, and the man cringed.

“They called him Captain America, Herr Schmidt.”

That was so absurdly stupid that Schmidt thought it might well be true. He shot the bungler anyway. Total war, indeed.

Dr. Zola stood by, unnerved but unspeaking. Schmidt turned to him with one of his dangerously cordial smiles.  

“Finish your mission, Dr. Zola, before these Americans finish theirs.”

As an additional precaution, Schmidt told his adjutant to accept the invitation on his desk in as public a manner as could be managed. If the Americans wanted a direct confrontation, he thought, perhaps it was time to show them the skull that was the hydra’s head. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I let the stupid 1940s Bucky outfit appear for two seconds; I just really have a lot of feelings about that insane get-up (most of them are whyyyyyyyyy). briefly considered actually making Steph wear it as part of her disguised-as-a-teenage-boy thing but whyyyyyyy.
> 
> also, Izzy Cohen, yay. and everyone Phillips offers except the chorus girls and the priest have in fact been members of a Howling Commandos team because …at some point Marvel had League of Extraordinary Gentlemen delusions, I guess.


	9. give 'em hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HYDRA sets a trap, Bucky gets yelled at (but finally gets to stop pulling his punches), and no one joins holy orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also called: ask for Dernier, get Dernier, or: I'm sorry okay I don't like how the movie skips over about a year in a five minute montage so here is some filler to get us back to winter in time for that train which I hate.

“Captain America, is it? I am familiar with your work.”

“Yeah? I mostly know you by the good men you murder."

The young man on the other side of the second-storey walkway was ready for a fight, his posture defensive and his grey eyes wrathful. His stony expression, however, gave no sign that he realised his team had been set up. Schmidt had hoped to force a confrontation sooner, but a couple of high-profile public appearances, including one at the Führer’s own invitation, had failed to draw out the ghost team. Finally, Schmidt had remembered the team’s particular attachment to prisoners of war and had a group of Frenchmen beg for assistance on all Allied frequencies before stringing them up for their comrades to find. He had, of course, reserved one or two live victims to draw the Americans in, and then gleefully engaged full demolition and waited for the boys in black leather to show themselves. So far there was just the one- but it was the very one Schmidt most wanted to see.

“You don’t have your rifle," Schmidt observed as he advanced to meet the boy at the centre of the bridge. "Were you hoping to borrow one of ours?”

 His gaze took in the erupting weapons stockpile.

“Naw,” the boy drawled. “No good at short range.”

It was almost endearing that he was naive enough to make the attempt. Schmidt caught the captain’s wrist and smiled at the boy’s pain and surprise as his bones shifted and cracked under pressure. The handgun hit the metal flooring with a clang; Schmidt kicked it leisurely over the edge.

“Did you think I would be as easy to fight as the buffoons you have been running rings around this past year?”

“I don’t think it matters,” the captain said defiantly. “We can just keep slowing you down, a chara. Germany’s not going to last another year as it is.”

Schmidt slammed the boy bodily against the railing next to them and relished the sound of his agony.

“You think I care about Germany? Ah, but I suppose _Captain America_ would think this was a game of flags and slogans.”

“HYDRA has both of those,” the impudent boy pointed out in a ragged voice. Schmidt hit him again and laughed as his lips reddened. He was deciding whether to hit the boy again, just to hear him scream, or fling him over the railing for his team to find, when a bullet grazed his ear so close that most of it came off.

The Captain went very, very still. The boy on the lower level must have done as well, for there was no second shot. Schmidt smiled pleasantly.

“Is this your friend Rogers, come to watch you die? You have caused my men your own share of grief, I find. Come, let me show you both what is really at stake. It’s not about national revolution, boys. It’s about human evolution.”

With a flourish, Schmidt released the injured man’s wrist and ripped viciously at his own horrible mask. He had a moment to savour the Captain’s wretched astonishment before the walkway lurched and began to move- Dr. Zola had arrived, and with typical over-cautious initiative was helpfully retracting his employer before the only partly mobile American could do him any damage. Schmidt sighed impatiently, but before he could order Zola to reverse the lever the Captain cried out for his companion to watch his back, Rogers.

The three men on the higher level watched a burly HYDRA operative charge the insubstantial American with a roar. Rogers had just enough warning to defend himself, but he couldn’t match the brute’s sheer strength. The Captain seemed to come to a decision just as the boy showed signs of being overwhelmed. He nodded once, obviously to himself, and then addressed the Red Skull in a voice like alpine water- cold, clear and full of unknowable depth.

“The kid you shot for no fucking reason was Thomas Coley. The guy whose arm you took was Michael Farleigh. He had a wife and daughter. Captain America’s just a stupid nickname- my name is James.”

The boy’s next actions amply clarified his cryptic declaration. The Captain hauled himself to his feet and jumped neatly off the receding platform. He landed with a roll that should have left him unconscious, considering his injuries, and  dragged the HYDRA agent off his young companion one-handed. The boy scooped up the gun on the ground- the fight was over in a second.

“Barnes,” Schmidt breathed as Zola froze beside him. Grey eyes met black, and the soldier had the audacity to grin. 

“Believe it, pal. I still have my own face, even. See ya.”

There was a blinding flash from too close at hand- Schmidt clenched his jaw in frustration, but of course there was no sign of James Barnes or his team by the time the smoke had cleared.

Suddenly, the Red Skull began to laugh. The diminutive scientist cringed away with gratifying dread.

“Americans are so refreshingly literal. Who would have guessed their ghost team was led by a dead man?”

Schmidt pinned Zola to the spot with a truly fearsome snake-eyed stare.

“You were wrong to pull that lever. You were wrong about James Barnes. You were wrong about this war being a three-year affair at most. Your next project had best impress me, doctor: you are running out of opportunities to get something right.”

* * *

“Captain, why in God’s name would any of us want you to resign?”

Steph had a strong suspicion that Falsworth would have been shouting if it weren’t for the fact that Bucky cut a truly sorry figure a week after their run-in with Schmidt. The Captain’s fractured wrist was most of the way to healing fully, but he was still breathing like Steph immediately after an asthma attack because of his damaged ribs. Unfortunately, the fact that every gasp was obviously hurting him wasn’t going to stop James Barnes from offering his team a full-scale military martyrdom.

“It’s a different fight now- you didn’t sign up for this.”

He had challenged Schmidt directly, Bucky explained in his stilting rasp. That was a direct violation of everything the SSR had instructed- obviously, Steph thought with a painful pang of guilt, or he wouldn’t have been feigning uselessness long enough to be beaten halfway to a pulp before giving up the whole charade because his wife was at risk. Schmidt would probably come after them a lot harder, now- and possibly in person. They had already seen what that meant twice- in that very first camp and this time, with the ghastly spectacle of the dead and dying French team. Bucky would understand, he said calmly, if they didn’t want to take that on. If he resigned, Phillips would probably keep the team intact but send them somewhere else- they could help end the war on other fronts, he explained. That was what it was coming to- the Germans were retreating rapidly, the Russians were advancing at a pace that felt almost threatening, and the Americans were free to assist wherever they were most useful.

Steph would have shaken her husband for his complete ridiculouslness if it weren’t for the fact that she was by far the least immune to the sight of James Barnes in pain, but Dugan beat her to the growling reprimand.

“So do you think we’re chickenshit or just plain chicken?”

Bucky clearly had no idea what that meant. Dugan went so far as to take the fat cigar out of his mouth before elaborating.

“You’re letting us off because it’s gonna get hot: you think we’re chicken. You’re letting us off because you think we won’t stand by our own damn Captain the way he’s stood by us for, what, a year of this hell? You think we’re chickenshit. Which is it, Cap?”

“If you think I’m either,” Jones rumbled with one of his affable smiles, “Taking a bullet for me in the spring was pretty damn stupid.”

Bucky smiled wryly- in its own way, it was a fair point succinctly made.

“I don’t care that much what you think,” Morita said sullenly. “I signed on to take that bastard down, and I don’t care who he’s hunting or what colour his goddamn devil-face is- until he’s dead or locked up it’s the same fight, and I’m still in however hot it gets.”

He met the Captain’s eyes.

“I’d feel a lot better about it if you were still in too, though.”

Their newest recruit- the one guy they’d managed to get out of Schmidt’s trap alive, and who had by sheer good fortune turned out to be some long-lost friend of Gabe’s- emitted a stream of emphatic French much too fast for most of them to follow. Falsworth grinned as Jones translated.

“Jacques says that if that’s how you fight one-handed when you can’t breathe then he’s not leaving until he gets to see you at your best, and if you try to quit again then you’re the one who’s chicken and chickenshit both.”

When the men turned to Steph expectantly, she raised her left hand with a little shrug.

“I don’t need a turn. I’m wearing his grandmother’s ring, he knows I go where he goes.”

The entire team guffawed as if she’d told a joke- her husband watched her face intently without saying anything. He wasn’t convinced, exactly, and she could see it- more than anything he hated the idea of anyone else getting hurt over Schmidt’s insane vendetta. But he knew what he had in these men, and she thought he would trust them- and her- whether he completely understood or not.

“Thanks. Really.”

Steph tangled her fingers together with her husband’s and tugged gently when he looked her way.

“Ignore him, he’s always thanking people for no reason. That’s settled, no one’s quitting. No one wanted to quit, anyway, not even you, Captain Sacrifice. We’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay? Come on, you’ll super-heal quicker if you actually rest instead of making your guys uncomfortable.”

He let her herd him towards their corner, smiling faintly and offering very little resistance as she bullied and cajoled with equal tenderness. As they retreated, she heard Gabe respond to another incomprehensible flood of French.  

“Yeah,” he said. His grin was audible, Steph thought. “All the ever-lovin’ time. He’s worse than she is, when she gets hurt.”

After a relatively lengthy convalescence- at least for him- Bucky was ready to come back guns blazing, but quickly discovered that his rifle was slowing him down more often than he got to use it. Now that he was free to stop disguising his serum-strength, Bucky was far more effective in close combat than he had any right to ignore- and in any case Steph could cover the long-range marks unassisted. Combined with Bucky’s strength, the vibranium shield turned out to make a surprisingly effective offensive weapon, so suddenly he found himself abandoning his rifle in favour of his fists or shield. The rest of the team worked much as it had before, but with a certain frission of defensive, affectionate pride each time they proved to their captain that they were in fact neither chicken nor chickenshit. As a result they all went in harder, faster and more prepared for things to get ugly quickly, and often came out of it so much the better.

One time, Steph was lining up a shot when she caught sight of Bucky- the guy he had by the collar was shouting at him about Schmidt, and when he reached 'James Barnes' Steph's husband positively beamed.

“Yeah, that’s me. Tell your boss Merry Christmas, yeah? Give him one of these from us, maybe.”

He knocked the HYDRA operative out with the kind of perfect punch that would have made Bob Ralston taste true bliss. It was like watching a different person entirely- he looked like Bucky before the accident, Steph realised: not thinking about everything, not afraid that everything they'd worked for might be snatched away at the next cough or fever, but just living in the moment and getting the job done with all the ease they'd never known in Brooklyn Heights. It made her want to cry even as it made her clap a hand over her mouth before she laughed out loud with joy. Steph barely realised she had gone over to him until he turned to her with concern.

“What do you need?”

“Nothing,” she murmured- Bucky raised an eyebrow at her coy tone. The second joined its partner when Steph slipped her hands into his pockets as if they were cuddling dockside instead of standing in the middle of a fire fight. 

“I'm glad you don’t have to hide anymore.”

Bucky turned to his left and took out an approaching HYDRA agent with a single thunderous blow; Steph kept a hand in his pocket for extra purchase as she lined up the shot that mowed another down over his shoulder. They shared a helpless look of bemusement that could have swung towards hysteria or desperation, then Bucky shrugged and closed the distance between them. They kissed, they grinned- they separated and went back to what they were actually supposed to be doing until some more convenient time.

Morita, working the small-scale explosives with Dernier, sighed long-sufferingly.

“All the ever-lovin’ time.”

Dernier shrugged and threw a grenade with visible relish.

“That’s the spirit,” Falsworth approved from behind them.

The only really strange thing, they reported when they were back in London, was that all seemed suspiciously quiet on the Red Skull front. It had been months since Schmidt had been spotted or heard from- speculation was rife even in German quarters. Phillips wondered over the phone whether Schmidt’s own forces had not been privy to his …deformity, and whether he and Zola had been forced underground until the Red Skull could be fitted with a new version of his old face. Steph shuddered violently; Bucky closed his eyes and refused to comment. Howard suggested that one of the recent attempts on Hitler’s life had been made at Schmidt’s behest, and the Skull had been dealt with accordingly. It wasn’t completely implausible, given what they knew- it just seemed unlikely that they could get that lucky.

“If we’re talking pure fancy,” Bucky retorted, “Maybe Johann saw the light, renounced his sins and joined some monastery in the mountains?”

“By all means keep an eye out for him and let us know,” Peggy said crisply as she entered. “I have your next assignment here. Dr. Zola seems to be in a great hurry to get to Berlin. We're sending you to alter his itinerary- it should put you right in that area.”

                                                                                 


	10. don't just hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really hate the stupid train.

“Remember when you said you’d come see Europe with me?”

“You really wanna talk about imaginary-Steve _now_?”

“Nah. I gotta know, Rogers: are we having fun yet?”

Stephanie gave her husband the dirtiest look she could manage considering the mountain wind was making her eyes smart and her cheeks stiffen. Apparently having less difficulty, Bucky grinned the teasing grin that had reliably made Steph want to kiss it right off his face since they were sixteen, pretty much- she might have gone for it if the radio hadn’t flared into life before she settled on an angle of attack. Bucky smirked and caught her gloved hand in his as Jones turned up the sound and prepared to fill them in. Steph tried harder to scowl ferociously; the jerk just laughed softly.

Their information was good: Zola was on the train rushing towards them, and the last word from HYDRA was for him to make all possible haste. Whatever was coming next was big, and they would not get another chance to find out what they would be facing before it was upon them.

Falsworth lowered his binoculars with a nod that was all business.

“Come on, then- they’re moving like the devil.”

Steph nodded- once everything was set up they would have maybe a ten-second window before they’d be zip-lining into a choice between solid rock and an active mountainside track frequented by high-speed trains.  

“What’re we waiting for?” Jones grinned with mostly-false enthusiasm.

Falsworth opened his mouth again, but Bucky spoke first.

“If he says ‘mind the gap,’ you can just leave him here when the rest of you come meet us.”

Steph elbowed their leader with a grin that completely ruined her reproach. Dernier didn’t leave his affronted colleague any time to defend himself.

“Maintenant!”

Bucky went first, grabbing the pulley confidently and stepping off the snow-covered ledge like he’d been doing it all his life. Steph and Gabe, waiting and watching anxiously, exchanged a comradely huff at the Captain not-quite showing off. Steph followed, eyes streaming in the unrelenting wind, and landed neatly on all fours much like Bucky had done. Jones tumbled down in third position, not quite graceful but steady as a marching drum behind Steph.

A sleek exterior ladder led to a doorway which stood no chance against a super-soldier with a vibranium shield. They split up without discussing it- Gabe headed forwards to subdue the driver while Steph and Bucky took the latter two carriages in search of HYDRA security and, they assumed, Arnim Zola.

That wasn’t quite how it worked out.

Shots were fired almost before they stepped into the first carriage- they ducked behind ominously labelled crates and prayed there were no explosives mixed in. Ahead of Steph, Bucky’s shield met someone’s faceplate at close quarters; he whirled to face the first guy’s partner as she raised her gun. First one body then another hit the crates behind him.

They slipped through the dark vestibule, wrists brushing as they moved together. Bucky spared a tiny smile; Steph rolled her eyes and it widened into a grin just like she’d known it would.

The HYDRA agents started shooting before they were fully through the door. Steph responded with deadly accuracy, darting forward when she saw her opening. The reassuring crash of the shield against inferior defences reported Bucky’s progress; she switched pistols as the first ran out of bullets.  

Steph looked up at an unfamiliar mechanical whine and took an involuntary step backwards. An armoured gunman was advancing on them wielding portable cannons the likes of which Howard Stark himself could not have seen.

“Bucky!”

She threw herself towards what cover was available and prayed he'd got the shield up in time. It turned out not to matter- the first shot was wide. Steph’s gut clenched as the bizarre blue beam ripped through the train’s steel-alloy walls like they were made of paper.

Bucky stepped in front of her with a kind of ruthless calm- with a chill that had nothing to do with the sudden rush of mountain air, Steph realised he had no plan beyond distracting their attacker from shooting at her. As the gunner turned towards him, Steph emptied her clip into the first crack that showed in his defences- a gap between his helmet and the back of his chestplate. The guy staggered to his knees as his arms hit the ground with a clattering din.

Bucky had just caught her eye- he would probably have grinned that perfectly kissable grin and come up with some incredibly embarassing quip about scenic views- when the all-too-loyal HYDRA grunt raised his arms with his last breath.

The force of the blast shook the shield from her husband’s hands- Steph felt the air leave her lungs as Bucky was flung clean out of the carriage.

She spared seconds she knew he didn’t have to make sure the brute with the cannons wasn’t going to revive again before flinging herself towards the edge. Her heart hammered like she’d been running for miles- she was gasping by the time she reached the edge.

Bucky was hanging on for dear life, already swinging forward with all the power of Erskine’s blessed formula. Stephanie was ready to throw herself out after him so she could help- she didn’t know how, just that he needed her- when her husband froze at the sight of her leaning out of the carriage.

“Steph, don’t.”

He could worry about himself or her but not both, she thought he meant, not while hanging over a chasm that didn’t bear thinking about. She nodded shakily and took her hands off the torn carriage wall with a sigh that was mostly a sob. Determinedly ignoring the endless drop below, she tried hard to smile for Bucky’s sake. Steph was sure she failed, but his lips turned up minutely in an answering effort.

Bucky shook his head roughly, gathering himself, and edged forward along the narrow ledge that provided an almost adequate foothold. He was making good progress when the bar he was dangling off started rattling ominously. Bucky’s careful composure began to crack as two of the four screws holding it- and him- to the train gave way. Shaking her head like she could forbid the railing from betraying him, Steph scanned the swaying sheet that had been a wall for any kind of handgrip.

“Get to the divider. You'll have to jump. Go now!”

Every word felt like glass in her throat. Bucky looked like he thought she was insane, or he was.

He’d nearly always trusted her judgment before.  

He let go.

The bar plummeted away into the depths.

Steph watched everything in the world that mattered to her hang in the balance for an endless heart-attack of a moment.

Bucky’s hand closed around the beam.

He was thrown forward- which was much better than back- Steph shuddered as her own James clung to creaking metalwork that had seemed so solid before she imagined that his life might depend on its stability. Bucky's feet found some purchase on the bars that slanted uselessly away- he hadn’t fallen yet, but he couldn’t stay like that for too long.

Bucky’s eyes were glassy- from the wind, from terror, from shock, maybe- and fixed on the distant rapids. If it weren’t for the serum they both knew he’d already be- Steph choked back another heaving sob-breath and tried to will her boy’s hands to stop trembling.

“Don’t freeze up,” she pleaded. “You gotta keep going. James, sweetheart, don’t check out on me now.”

He tried to rally- he did rally. Bucky felt his way along the edge, going slow to maintain his tenuous footing. He kept his eyes locked on her face as much as he could- it made Steph nervous that he didn’t seem to want to look where he was going, but if it helped she wasn't going to question it.

Just as she was beginning to feel it might be safe to breathe again, Bucky looked up and went completely rigid. He rasped Steph’s name, probably meaning to warn her, and she reached out instinctively as he closed the distance between them with a reckless burst of speed and slightly-more-than-human strength. Steph grabbed his shoulders, not sure whether she was trying to catch him or steady him or just assure herself that he was really there. She was halfway to wrapped around him by the time they collapsed like a pair of puppets with their tangled strings just cut.

They were still huddled together, breathing the same air in short, painful gasps, when the train whipped round the bend and into the tunnel that had filled Bucky with dismay.

Solid rock scraped unforgivingly against the surface he’d been clinging to seconds earlier. Steph thought she might have lost the use of all her limbs, but Bucky just held on tighter.

“Wasn’t so bad,” he mumbled close to Steph’s ear. His teeth were chattering. “Just like the Cyclone, r’member? If there’d been no seats, I guess. Or floor. And a wall to crush you for not goin’ fast enough.”

“Shut up, shut up. Bucky, you nearly-”

She couldn’t say it. The ice forming on his clothes hurt to look at- Steph dusted his shoulders off viciously, then yanked her gloves off and carded her fingers through Bucky’s damp hair until there was no sign that he’d ever been outside. As the evidence faded her frantic attentions gentled into a lingering caress, and her husband tilted his head so that his wind-chapped lips skimmed the inside of her wrist as it came within reach. His smile was compassionate.

“I’m still here, Steph.”

She kissed his chilled forehead like he was a small child, or a very sick relative. Or any other precious, precious gift that could too suddenly be snatched away.

“Thank God for that. Thank God for you, you stupid boy. Did you really go against those cannons with a shield and a handgun? Oh my god, James.”

“Made it back, didn’t I?”

“James-”

 “I’ll always come back to you, you know. Long’s I have any say.”

It wasn’t enough- Steph wouldn’t have known what anyone could possibly say that might have been near enough. Tired of talking, she blazed a scattered trail of scared-angry-thankful kisses up his jaw and then dropped her head onto Bucky’s shoulder with another small gasp-sigh. He cradled her the way he’d only ever done when she'd been so sick it scared him. Steph lay quietly, savouring the surrounding strength of his arms, the rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his heartbeat evening as he calmed. In violation of every rule he’d ever laid down, Bucky knocked her cap off her head and brushed her hair out of its tight pinned-back braid with careful, knowing fingers. She wondered what he’d done with his gloves and decided she couldn’t care less. Matching her breathing to his, Steph gave up and closed her eyes.

When the others joined the commandeered train as agreed, they found Gabe looking very uneasy considering he had both a terrified engineer and the hapless doctor comfortably at gunpoint.

“They’re in the back. Can’t tell what the hell went down but they haven’t moved two inches in forever.”

The doctor dared to smirk, but five ferocious glares quickly wiped any trace of it right off his face.

Falsworth and Dernier were not prepared for the devastation ahead of them. A hulking soldier wearing improbable-looking weaponised armour lay dead at the entrance of the third carriage, which was missing almost all of its left wall. Much too close to that opening for comfort, the Captain and his wife lay together in a loose embrace. For a terrible moment it appeared that one or both of them had been shot, but then Barnes raised his head with something like a grin.

“We’re okay. Will be okay? May never take a train again, but’s all okay. Don’t have ‘em at home anymore anyway. Everything okay with Jones and the guys? I think we just need a minute.”

“Or a month,” his wife mumbled into his jacket. “Stop saying 'okay'.”

The Captain rubbed her neck with one infinitely gentle hand.

Falsworth and Dernier exchanged a helpless look.

“We can give you another hour, in any case. Zola’s not up to much without the hired muscle- he’s watching Jones and Dugan like he thinks someone’s going to shoot him just for giggles. You two sit tight as long as you need.”

If the young men lining the platform at the occupied Alpine base were hoping to be wowed by the SSR’s fabled crack team, they were sorely disappointed. The sober party which got off the stolen, mysteriously ravaged train met their enthusiasm with little more than a nod from Dugan and a small wave from Morita. Captain Barnes, known to be a little reserved but usually easy-going, was grim as the reaper himself as he oversaw Zola’s transfer into custody. He conducted himself with tight-lipped professionalism, vanishing as soon as it was clear his team could handle the rest; no one saw any sign of his wife.

This time, there would be no teasing banter or comic re-enactments of mostly-impossible feats. Certainly there was no dancing. The team retreated when their work was done and not a moment later; the unmarked cars that arrived in the wee hours took them away with the dawn.

 

                                                                              

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I realize this was kind of a risk in terms of film-related expectations! but, you know, mostly so far the Bucky-things have happened to Bucky and the Steve-things to Steph, and sometimes I let comics intervene and veto movie events so I figured it was consistent. plus I think Steph would have stood less of a chance against giant cannons than un-serum Bucky so, you know, since I did not want that for them just now I figured this would be it.  
> I did worry that not having at least one of their lives be completely ruined by this bit was copping out, though. does anyone feel cheated? (sorry)


	11. you're still with us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain America's lifestyle choices disturb Zola; Steph goes drinking in a dodgy bar and worries about Bucky, who worries about her; the SSR decides that if a plan ain't broke they ain't gotta fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this feels like filler too but I don't think it is? I dunno. also I am wondering about sequels. AAU one-shots are tempting because I have about seven endings for this thing, also, Avengers? Movie Avengers? Comic book Avengers? 12-person Avengers team combining all of them (for some reason I would love genderswapped Jack van Dyne and his wife Harriet) plus Sam Wilson and Carol Danvers?

Arnim Zola was pacing the cell he had been assigned with distaste bordering on dismay when the door opened with a clang. The prisoner was being served his dinner, but unlike in the intervening weeks it wasn’t the stone-faced warden who brought it.

“Sit down,” Colonel Phillips suggested.

Zola did, glancing uncertainly from the colonel to the tray he was arranging with self-conscious solicitude.

“What is this?”

“Steak.”

“What is in it?”

“Cow.”

Zola muttered that meat did not agree with him; the Colonel intimated that he thought the doctor was weak and a coward because he had not killed himself like countless other HYDRA operatives.

“So here’s my brilliant theory: you want to live.”

Zola wondered whether there was any rational soul who did not. He asked whether the Colonel thought he would be intimidated by such questioning; Phillips shrugged and made offensive and mildly sexual suggestions around a mouthful of prime beef. Zola shuddered delicately, then remembered something he was still curious about.

“Do your men know Captain America is a sexual deviant?”

Phillips stopped chewing in amazement. The doctor pressed his advantage.

“He fraternises with his men.”

The colonel put down his fork.

“He has been seen with the teenager. The boy with the pistols.”

“Rogers,” Phillips muttered. Zola nodded.

“Not you. Rogers, get in here.”

The door opened again; this time, it swung to admit a tense, wan-looking youth.

“Rogers,” the colonel asked in a resigned voice, “Have you been fraternising with your Captain?”

The boy graced Phillips with an angelic smile that transformed his face.

“Yes, sir.”

Zola started so violently his chair scraped loudly on the ground. Rogers winced.

“In front of HYDRA agents?”

“No, sir. Well. I guess we kissed once, maybe? Sorry, sir.”

“Do I need to tell you why it’s dangerous for you and Captain Barnes to get distracted while people are trying to kill you?”

“No, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”

“It better not. Keep it in the bedroom, all right? Or at least on base. If you must scandalise the troops try and limit it to the ones who already like you.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Zola’s already bulbous eyes were close to popping out of his pasty head.

“Very good, Rogers. Would you like to stay? We were discussing Dr. Zola’s future before he expressed an interest in your relationship with Captain Barnes.”

The boy scowled.

“Just give him back to HYDRA.”

Zola cringed; Phillips, intrigued, motioned for Rogers to continue.

“We already know how much Schmidt values this guy- he sent him on a six-hour trip in a train full of weapons with, what, five guys and the engineer? I say send him home and let HYDRA decide whether a guy who can’t keep custody of his own self is any good at keeping other people’s secrets.”

Rogers looked Zola dead in the eye, his effeminate face flushed with anger, bright eyes cold and unforgiving.

“This joker nearly cost us the best we have; I don’t think you should risk any more to protect him. And, I dunno, Captain Barnes has friends all over the place. I wouldn’t hope for much in the way of Allied protection anyway, if I were the guy everyone knew kept trying to kill him.”

Zola was cowering so far back in his chair that it looked like he’d rather be under it. Colonel Phillips nodded thoughtfully.

“Thank you. Dismissed.”

“So,” the Colonel said as the door clicked shut, “You wanna take your chances with my grudge-bearing deviants and their friends, or can you think of something I can use to have you remanded to Switzerland? Schmidt’s big plan, maybe?”

Zola gave up everything he knew.

* * *

 

Bucky raised his eyebrows at the sight of his wife and her diminishing supply of whisky. Stephanie was sitting at the one upright table in the bombed-out shell of a bar they’d all been to the last time they’d been on leave in London.  There was debris everywhere, rubble and disconnected wiring along with the remnants of the ransacked cabinets and some mostly-wrecked furniture.

Bucky pulled a reliable-looking chair up next to hers and helped himself to her glass.

“What are we doing? This is the most depressing bar I’ve ever been in, and I spent that whole night at Spencer’s with Gary the second time Aggie ditched him.”

“I went to the interrogation,” she admitted; Bucky sighed. Stephanie scowled defiantly. “He’s been in charge of killing you twice. I wanted to see him squirm. Bucky, I wanted to see him bleed.”

“Damn those lousy Geneva Conventions.”

She smiled a little.

“Phillips and I spooked him with your sexual deviance, though.”

Bucky choked mid-swallow. Steph thumped his back helpfully.

“Zola thinks I’m your lover.”

“Aren’t you? I don’t think that’s deviant, Steph. How’s that anything but expected?”

Bucky’s petulantly injured confusion was too endearing not to giggle at. Steph closed her hand over his on the table between them, eyes softening when their rings clinked in their affirming way.

“He thinks I’m your male, teenage lover.”

She watched understanding dawn along with a kind of mortified delight.

His gaze traced her cheekbones with old fondness and new curiosity.

“I don’t get how they still think that. You look just like you to me, Steph Rogers.”

She glared.

“James, I swear, if you can’t learn to remember that we have the same name I’m going to start calling you Buck Rogers just so we match.”

Bucky smiled sheepishly, but then squeezed her hand and turned suddenly serious.

“You wanna tell me why you’re drinking alone in a broken-down bar that would make Sarah Miller cry? You don’t even like whisky, Stephanín. And you can’t get drunk.”

The distance between them seemed too great for what she had to say. Steph stood up and walked over to the bar, knowing Bucky would follow. As soon as he leaned against it, watching her curiously, she pressed in front of him, her shoulders flush against his chest. Bucky looped his arms around her waist just like she’d wanted him to and brushed his lips against her temple the way he often did when he was feeling protective and maybe a little nervous. Steph stared vacantly into the street as she offered her solemn confession.

“I keep seeing you die- all the ways it it could have been. Mike Farleigh doesn’t know about the serum and you have to save your Tommy. You don’t make the jump. Schmidt realises he can shoot you instead of knocking you around. You make the jump and your hands slip. Those cannons get you before they get the wall. We’re too slow and the god-damned tunnel-”

“Asthma, pneumonia, flu. Whatever the hell it was in ‘38. Asthma again. That fever in the winter of ’41, god.”

She turned around in his arms to look at him. Bucky had kept his touch gentle, but his jaw was clenched and his shoulders tight with remembered fear and pain. His eyes, as always, were all love.

“I know what it’s like, gorgeous girl.”

For the first time Stephanie realised how different his wedding vows must have been from hers. Just the thought of ‘til death do us part,’ knowing as he must have done that for him it would have to mean ‘until her useless body gives up on us for good’- she took a slow, stabilising breath and thought about their life together.

“Was it like this all the time?”

“Getting sick's not really the same as bein' at war, though, is it? And I don’t get nightmares like you do.”

Bucky sounded so sympathetic that Steph forgot to be annoyed with him for not even pretending he had believed her different excuses for jerking awake at night. She smiled at him in the particular way that meant he wasn’t as sly as he thought.

“You don’t get nightmares because when you get like that you hardly sleep at all, J.”

He didn’t deny it. She sighed again and put her hands on his shoulders, gazing into his eyes like she hadn’t had the time to do in far too long.

“James Barnes, you really are the best man I know.”

There was something deeply touching about the fact that she could still make her boy blush and flounder.

“Aw, Steph. Have to keep up with you, don’t I?”

He saw the reluctance in her eyes and leaned in to kiss her softly, a restrained and gentle pressure.

“Just one more push, okay? We get Schmidt, we’re done. Really and truly. Home free, and it won’t ever have to be like this again.”

“I’m going to shoot that bastard so many times,” she promised. Her husband’s bark of laughter was shocked, his smile admiring.

“You’re so vicious for such a sweet little thing. Sometimes I forget.”

“He broke your wrist just to see you hurt,” she protested darkly. “I want every one of his guys dead or captured.”

“I love you, angel of vengeance. You ready to go?”

* * *

 

Phillips and Carter delivered what might well be the final full-scale SSR briefing of the war with grave sobriety.

“Johann Schmidt belongs in a bug-house. Guy thinks he’s a god, and he’s prepared to level half the world to prove it. Beginning, according to my new best friend, with the USA.”

“We’re just that popular,” Bucky muttered, drawing a few nervous laughs.

Howard slid into the seat next to him, expression sincere- even scared.  

“He has weapons on hand like we’ve only just learnt to model. If we don’t stop them before they get across the Atlantic they could take out the entire Eastern seaboard in an hour.”

That level of destruction would make a joke of the atomic bomb which was rumoured to be Washington’s ace in hand. Gabe squared his shoulders.

“How much time do we have?”

“About a day.” Agent Carter handed round a set of surveillance photographs. “HYDRA has one last base in the Alps.”

The team went still; Steph drew in a slow, shaky breath at the sight of the mountains. Bucky grabbed her hand under the table.

“You’ll get over it,” Phillips assured them in his matter-of-fact way. “You’re staying on the ground this time, and we’re sure as hell not waiting for the trains to run on time.”

Morita was frowning over the photos.

“So what’s the plan? We can’t just go up there and ring the bell.”

“Why not?”

Every face except her husband’s turned to Agent Barnes. Steph shrugged casually.

“We tried that, right at the beginning. Got most of you back, didn’t we?”

* * *

 

In spite of her confidence at the briefing, Bucky was all too conscious of Steph’s brooding silence as they settled in for the night. When she flopped beside him with a gusty sigh, he rolled onto his side and kissed her shoulder to get her attention.

“Talk to me, Agent Steph.”

“How can I let you go out there again?”

She was deadly earnest, but Bucky let his voice stay low and teasing.

“Let me? You gonna sign my permission slip so I can come?”  

“Maybe I won’t. I’ll tell Phillips you wandered off in the night and then keep you right here where no one can hurt you. Let someone else fight the fight for once.”

Her troubled sigh made his chest ache.

“You know, if you don’t want to-”

“No. Bucky, no. That would be so much worse.”

Steph closed the gap between them, lying half next to him and half across him.

“That's what we do, right? You and me, together from the start.”

“And so forever, world without end, amen. But you’re gonna have to let me come, then, aren’t you?”

She shook her head helplessly.

“I wish we didn’t have to. I wish you didn’t have to. I just want you to be safe. James, tá eagla orm.”

“I know, Stephanie. The rest of us too, a chroí.”

He raised a hand to support her neck and then rolled with her so she was trapped comfortably between him and the mattress.

“We’re still going to do this, though. For Dr. Erskine and for Tommy Coley. Angie Farleigh and her da.”

Steph smiled when she nodded, sad and sure, brave like she always was.

“For America, Captain.”

“And for liberty, I guess. You gonna be okay?”

Knowing what he was asking, Steph let him see all the answers in her eyes. If it were up to her she’d hide her husband where Schmidt would never find him, but she couldn’t ask him to sacrifice half of the East Coast to do it. She wasn’t sure about Captain America, and she knew he wasn’t either, but she’d believed in James Barnes all her life.

“I go where you go. That’s what matters, right?”

Bucky kissed his wife’s jaw just below her ear, making her shiver, then worked his way down her neck. Enjoying their closeness, he counted down with amused resignation to the loving, reproachful reminder that they couldn’t afford to be up half the night. It never came: Steph grasped his shoulders and arched her neck to give him better access.

“James,” she murmured with satisfaction. “All mine and only mine.”

It was just God’s honest truth.

Her hair glistened in the low light, spreading like the gilt halo of some medieval icon. Bucky bent his head and did his determined best to show due reverence.

In the morning, Captain Barnes kissed his wife apologetically when she whined at the loss of his warmth. Bucky turned to rummage for their clothes.

“Up, Stephanín, it’s HYDRA-hunting day.”

“Yuck,” Steph muttered as she pulled on the shirt he’d chucked at her. “It’s probably not a sin to hate those guys, Bucky, right? God damn these buttons.”

Bucky paused with his hands on his belt buckle, transfixed by the spectacle in front of him. For reasons unknown Steph had decided to yank the heavy garment over her head instead of doing it up like she had done every day since it had been issued, and she was discovering for the first time that it just wasn't going to work that way. That was his girl, Bucky thought with almost painful tenderness- braver than the best of men even when she was terrified, clever and cut-throat and soft and sweet, defiant in the face of HYDRA and defeated by her clothes because she was still half asleep.

“Woman,” he told her as he crossed back over to save her from the untold challenges of cotton twill, “I could not love you more than this.”

“That’s fine,” Steph smiled magnanimously up at her husband once he'd freed her. “This is the perfect amount.”

When they were outfitted and equipped, they stood for a moment in front of the mirror in their room. They were nearly shoulder to shoulder. Bucky met his wife’s eyes in their reflection with a tiny smile.

“Ready to go slay the beast?”

“Ready as we’ll ever be. I really hate these boots, J. I can't wait to be done with this.”

“I know, a ghrá. Just this last time, okay?”

 

                                                                            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even more Irish: 'tá eagla orm' is 'I'm scared'


	12. always fight for liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the last plan is surprisingly similar to the first plan, Schmidt makes overtures to an unsympathetic audience, and Steph sighs because a Bucky unsupervised is a dangerous thing.

“This is bizarre,” Steph complained from between the motorcycle’s handlebars and its rider’s leather-clad chest.

“In two years I’ve never, ever, had to ride like this. I’m a woman, not an infant. You know I can handle a bike.”

“Of course you can. It’s just going to get very tight- I’ll feel better knowing I took care of this myself.”

“Men,” she grumbled. “Bunch of patronising jerks.”

“Go,” her self-appointed chauffeur decided, unmoved. Steph, still frowning, released the tripwires on cue.

“What are you so cross about? We're an excellent team.”

It did seem to be an improbably convenient arrangement- with her hands free, Steph could make short work of the HYDRA agents unlucky enough to cross in front of the bike while Howard’s myriad of tools and tricks took out most of HYDRA’s motorcycle squad. Steph cringed as a blast of flame incinerated several unfortunate men at once- sometimes she was very grateful not to have the kind of mind which designed offensive weapons.

"Nearly there," she murmured unnecessarily as they bore down on the base. The trusty vibranium shield held up for a second time against the cannons that still made Steph shudder and shrink back, and then they were heading up the ramparts at break-neck speed.

“This is why we only have one bike,” her companion said tartly. “Jump!”  
Steph did, reaching for her pistols as she rolled. The bike crashed into the armed inner gate and exploded magnificently. They fought hard, but of course even the two of them couldn’t take on HYDRA’s last stand alone.

“Barnes and Rogers,” a large masked man decided with satisfaction. “Of course the boy rides with his Captain.”

Stephanie rolled her eyes and scowled. The HYDRA agents found this hilarious.

They were led at gunpoint to a large control room, but when they got there it was not Johann Schmidt who met them. The base commander offered them an oddly friendly smile as well as a speech that sounded very carefully memorised.

“Good day to you, Captain Barnes, and to your …particular friend. The Red Skull wishes to convey his apologies- he would have liked to greet you personally, but he was called ahead to more immediate matters. He will see you on his return so you can congratulate him on his conquest of your nation before he decides on the manner of your demise.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Monty Falsworth said cheerfully. “Our Captain got an early start too. And my country’s on this side of the water, mate.”

As the Commander’s eyes widened- and as some of the soldiers who had escorted them in began to back away, remembering what hearsay suggested had happened to the first set of soldiers to fall for the SSR’s bait-and-switch routine- the rest of the ghost team arrived in true Howling Commando style.

They crashed through the wide glass window with boisterous shouts of determination and even enjoyment. Dernier’s explosions were still wreaking havoc in their wake, and Morita’s grenades had cleared the way for them. Dugan and Jones tackled a couple agents each, Dugan actually smacking their heads together with a satisfied chuckle.

Falsworth handed Steph the shield with a small, gentle smile very unlike his usual rakish grin.  
“Better go join the Captain. We’ll take it from here. Be careful, Mrs. Barnes.”  
“Thanks. We’ll see you after, okay?”

Steph ran down the dark corridor with a stirring in her chest that felt oddly like excitement rather than fear. She hadn’t wanted to start the mission on the opposite side of the base from her husband, but they’d wanted HYDRA to be sure they were chasing the Captain. Thanks to Zola, it had been easy enough to guess that the shield and the boy Rogers, whom Steph was seriously starting to resent, would be enough to convince most of the HYDRA lookouts. While these were thus distracted, Bucky had led a much quieter mission around the back to deal some more long-range damage to Schmidt’s plans.

When she reached the men in engineering, everything seemed to be going according to plan: Howard Stark and his team were steadily gutting HYDRA’s machinery, remotely disabling most of Schmidt’s complement of missiles while US soldiers in black leather guarded the operation just as their HYDRA counterparts would have done if this were all above board. For a moment Steph felt almost calm- then Howard met her eyes with a worried, guilty look and she realised that Bucky had done something stupid again. He would, wouldn’t he- she _had_ left him on his own for more than twenty seconds.

Steph closed her eyes briefly.

“Please tell me he’s not on the plane with Schmidt.”

Howard shrugged helplessly; Cohen nodded enthusiastically.

Stephanie, knowing only that she could not leave her husband alone in the air with a madman and forty-some half-armed missiles, ran for the runway as if she could somehow catch up with a plane that was already rolling slowly towards take-off.

An engine roared- but it wasn’t the plane's.

“Get in,” Colonel Phillips snapped. He was at the wheel of a ridiculously ornate car that could only belong to Johann Schmidt. Peggy was in the passenger seat, as severe and determined as Steph had ever seen her.

“We can catch you up if you really think he needs you up there.”

“I really think he needs me up there,” Agent Barnes confirmed, vaulting into the back.

Peggy twisted around in her seat to study her friend's face intently.

“Are you injured?”

“It's just a scratch,” Steph assured Peggy, then scowled. “Why is the idiot on that plane? Did you guys not specifically say we were going to stay on the ground?”

“Schmidt got started sooner than we expected,” Peggy half-shouted as Phillips gunned the engine again. Against all the odds, they were gaining on the accelerating plane. “It’s all or nothing now- he can’t detonate anything remotely but he'll still be able to crash the whole kit and caboodle wherever he likes unless the captain stops him.”

“How's he planning to do that?”

“There’s a power source,” Peggy hollered over competing engines. “'The blue and glowing cube thing,' Stark says." Agent Carter rolled her eyes at the precision of MIT training. “You just have to detach it, and then land the plane. We’ll find you.”

“We _just_ have to land a plane we don’t know how to fly? And you’ll find us wherever we end up?”

“Yes,” Peggy said with a fond look. “That's it exactly.”

“Okay.” Steph smiled because the alternatives were worse. “Why not?”

It wasn’t really more far-fetched than anything else they’d had to do.

“Ready, Agent Barnes?”

Colonel Phillips sounded grim, but he was smiling faintly.

“Get your boy, get the bad guys, we'll send Stark and Carter to get you.”

She beamed at him.

“Story of our lives these days.”

Peggy stood up and hugged her very quickly.

“Okay,” she said, smiling as though her eyes weren’t full of tears.

"Go on, then."

Steph did.

Clambering up the strange jet's wheel shaft might have been the most terrifying thing she’d ever had to do. Steph forced herself not to close her eyes and very deliberately thought of anything but her husband and that damn train. A blast of air from the propellers took her cap right off her head, but Steph kept her eye on the hatch she’d identified as her best hope and made it into the aircraft just as the runway gave way to a sheer drop below.

She allowed herself a full minute of horrified gasping, leaning against the firmly closed hatchway in a kind of exultant, terrified triumph, before she began to edge quietly towards the unmistakable sound of wanton destruction being perpetrated at serum-level strength. The trail of incapacitated agents which marked the way suggested that Bucky had been determined to make sure no one would be there to harass Steph if she did manage to catch up, or- also entirely reasonable, Steph thought- just that he had been pretty damn annoyed by the time he’d got to the engine room, or wherever one kept blue glowing cubes.

She inched quietly onto the scene, trying not to give away their advantage before she had to.

It looked like Bucky might need what help he could get. Steph thought Schmidt must have him cornered- she couldn’t see him, but it seemed likely because the Red Skull was lecturing her husband in a blisteringly strident tone instead of trying to beat him bloody.

“Arrogance may not be a uniquely American trait, but I must say you do it better than anyone. What is your plan now, Captain? I hope it isn't to slow us down. On this occasion it is not I who am out of time.”

He lashed out suddenly, but Bucky must have ducked because the terrible crunch of bone never followed, and the Red Skull whistled through his teeth.

“Impressive,” Schmidt said, sounding close to wistful. “You really are a fine specimen, James Barnes. Are you sure you will not join me? You could have the power of the gods, boy. You must see by now we are much more than other men.”

“More insane, maybe.” Bucky's considering drawl was unimpressed in the extreme. “I wonder about that every time I end up listening to you run your mouth.”

The Red Skull nodded once.

“As you wish, Captain. I had thought I might let you live to see your country burn, but perhaps it would be wiser to end this now. Certainly more convenient, at least for me.”

Schmidt raised his gun.

“Not for me,” Steph muttered, striding into view to take her best shot.

Schmidt’s gun clattered to the ground. His eyes widened at the sight of Stephanie’s wind-swept hair.

"Hey," Bucky sounded pleased and distressed at the same time.

"You sure know how to pick your moment. You been here this whole time?" 

Disturbingly, Johann Schmidt began to laugh.

“I knew Dr. Scherer could not have strayed so far as to select an invert for his experiment. So the boy Rogers turns out to be the Captain’s woman. How delightful. How complex. How typical of Scherer to choose his champion for precisely those qualities which make men weak.”

As Steph took in the fact that she had never stopped to wonder how a scientist from Augsburg came to have so Scottish a name as Erskine, Schmidt’s eyes narrowed at the blood drying on her forehead and the mostly-healed graze just above it. The Red Skull smiled his terrible death’s-head grin.

“He really did give you the lion’s share of our inheritance, boy. A mate; wonderful. So Scherer’s last contribution to our race was a breeding pair. Oh, but this is exquisite. It is almost a shame he had to die.”

He beamed horribly at Bucky, who Steph could see was a little shaky on his feet, but still standing.

“Perhaps the girl will join me? You know in nature it is the strongest male who gets his choice of the females.”

James Barnes had not spent an entire lifetime as the self- appointed defender of Steph Rogers' personal boundaries to let a few broken bones and a possible concussion slow him down when it counted. The Red Skull roared in annoyance and real pain as Bucky, tackling him backwards with feral strength, nailed Schmidt’s hand to the console behind them with a swift and vicious stab of his switch-knife. 

“You won’t touch her,” Bucky growled. “You'll never even learn her name, you complete freakshow.”

Steph watched, a little stunned, as her husband attacked like he never had before- without restraint, almost without thought. Schmidt put up more resistance than anyone else could have, but Steph could see he had never expected Captain Barnes to show anything like that level of skill or strength, let alone such undiluted bloody-mindedness. Remembering that she hadn't climbed onto a moving aircraft to stand around and watch her husband destroy someone for threatening her, Steph started work on the process of extracting Howard's blue and glowing cube thing.

As soon as he heard the crash of broken glass, the Red Skull’s eyes fastened on the case Steph was smashing her way into with the shield. It was as though Schmidt forgot Bucky was there at all. With a sudden surge of strength he threw the Captain off, wrenched his hand free of the console and lurched forward with Bucky’s knife still through his palm, dripping blood in the most gruesome way.

Bucky paused, wondering if it was bad form to shoot an opponent in the back, but then remembered who his opponent was and that Stephanie was on the other side of the case Schmidt was heading for. He took the shot, and then another. Schmidt’s fanatical determination seemed to cancel out pain itself- he surged onwards as if a pair of gunshot wounds were just so many minor inconveniences.

“Foolish woman,” the Red Skull cried in an almost wounded voice, “What can you think you are doing?”

“Taking your legs out from under you,” Steph suggested. “Unless, I dunno- if I cut this cube thing off are two more going to grow?”

She raised the shield again, ready to test her theory. Schmidt cried out in rage. Steph brought the shield down just as the plane jerked suddenly- crosswinds or something, maybe. Bucky darted forward as the cube tumbled towards the ground. The Red Skull lunged for it as though it were his first-born child. His hand closed around his prize as Bucky’s found Steph’s wrist.

The change was gradual at first, but soon the light was bright enough to hurt. Schmidt didn’t seem to care, laughing maniacally as he clutched the glowing beacon like it could save him. For a second, Bucky was genuinely afraid it might. He shifted a little so he stood between Schmidt and Stephanie, not that he could do much more than she could against a weapon they knew nothing about. It turned out not to matter.

The Skull’s crazed laughter turned abruptly into a scream of pain. He reached for Bucky blindly, but Steph was already pulling him away. They would never know whether Schmidt’s last impulse had been to beg for help or try and drag them down with him. In a final flash of blinding light, the Red Skull vanished altogether.

The cube hit the floor and, as they watched in mute horror, melted a hole right through it and dropped away into the air below.

Stephanie stared at the space where their enemy- and their blue glowing cube thing- had just been.

“Did he get sucked into hell right in front of us? I didn’t think that happened outside the Old Testament. Bucky, what did we just see?”

“Stephanie.”

Bucky’s mind was on a more immediate problem. Steph turned to find her husband watching the control panel in front of him with a carefully blank expression.

“I don’t think we’re gonna be able to just wait for our ride, a chroí.”

The lights on the dashboard were flickering and winking out one by one.

Below them, as far as the eye could see, spread a glistering expanse of icy water, as pristine as it promised to be deadly.

 

                                                                                         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so near the end now! eep.  
> ((for a different ending this is where you can hop over to _a strange and exquisite bliss_ , in which Schmidt somehow got away with Steph, and Bucky has to go and get her.))


	13. to have and to hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I guess we know what happens next.

Bucky collapsed into the captain’s chair with a gasping breath that sounded like it hurt.

“I can keep it steady,” he decided, reaching for the controls very confidently considering he’d never been in the cockpit of a plane before. “Don’t know what difference it makes, but what else is there to do now? Christ, Stephanie, how did you even get up here?”

She came to sit with him, curling around him as he made room automatically.

“I climbed in. Phillips and Peggy gave me a boost.”

Bucky blinked slowly, like he was trying to imagine it but already knew it wasn’t going to work. Steph felt her throat tighten as his eyes grew wet.

“You’d have been fine,” he said in the same devastated monotone. “Stephanie, you could have been-”

“A Shéamais, if you’d had to do this alone I don’t think I’d ever have been fine again.”

He shook his head, expression fierce.

“There should be so much more for you. You’re not going to drown. You’re not. You can’t, a chroí, not-“

“James.” She rested her cheek against his shoulder. “A chéadsearc, I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about drowning. There’s a lot of ice down there.”

This, at least, got a reaction. Bucky’s hands clenched and unclenched; his eyes snapped to hers.

“How can you be so calm about this? Yesterday you were-”

“Yesterday I was worrying about what would happen if we failed.”

“You think this is succeeding?”

“Isn’t it? We stopped HYDRA, sent Schmidt right to Hell- possibly actually right there, I don’t know what that was- kept America safe and our team too. For everyone, like you said, Angie and your Tommy and Dr. Ers- Dr. Scherer?”

She glanced at him uncertainly; he nodded.

“Josef Abraham Scherer. I asked Howard once- knew he was less from Glasgow than I am.”

She tried to laugh, but it came out more like half a cough.

“That’s everything we said we’d do, my honey. What more can there be, but stay together and go with God?”

“Keep my girl safe,” Bucky whispered. His voice cracked as he continued. “Love her, and keep her, and see her safely home. Stephanie, how can you be the price for the rest of it? It’s not right. It’s not fair, it’s too-”

“Hush,” she murmured. Steph swiped at the tears on Bucky’s cheeks with the heel of her palm.

“Where d’you think home is, huh? I already said, I go where you go. Even HYDRA knows that.”

“'s not enough,” he protested. “Steph, you can’t just-”

“Why not?”

Bucky looked as shocked as if she'd hit him.

“No, I mean that. Why not? We’re supposed to do this together, right? You and me, both together or not at all?”

He nodded slowly.

“So how come you have to give up everything to beat the bad guy and save America while I just, what, wait with Howard? If you’d come out here on your own then my price would be you and your price would be you too, wouldn’t it? That doesn’t even make sense, Buck.”

Steph wasn’t entirely sure she was making sense herself, but it felt true. Before Bucky could reply, a crackle of static from the dying console made them both jump.

“… in, Captain Barnes. James, Stephanie- come in, damn it.”

“Stark, how the hell-”

“We're just that g-g-d, kid. Listen, is Steph-”

“Right here, Mr. Stark.”

“Ah. Good. Hiya Mrs. Cap.  You two okay? Can I t-k-k-t- got Schmidt?”

“I didn’t get to shoot him,” Steph grumbled, then cheered up. “Bucky nearly broke his face, though.”

“Yeah? Well done, ace. Lis-s-s-n, I need your coordinates.”

Bucky shook his head, his eyes shadowed.

“There’s no time, a chara.”

“Let me –z-zz-j-tj of that, Barnes.”

“Stark, there’s no-”

“Doesn’t matter. No power, no engine, n- pl-n-n. You two j-s-s-t h-ng in there, ok-k-ay? I’m not g-g-ng up on you.”

“Howard,” Bucky murmured. “Thank you.”

Steph rattled off the most recent reading they could find, but before she was done Bucky laid a hand on her shoulder to let her know there was no point continuing.

The panel in front of them had gone completely dark.

“Just you and me now, Stephanín.”

Bucky sounded a lot calmer now. Accepting what he couldn't change, he would do his best, probably mostly for Stephanie's sake. James Barnes in one sentence.

Steph reached up and brushed his unkempt hair back into place. The domesticity of it made her want to laugh, or scream.

“Who else have we ever needed, huh?"

He did smile at that, the saddest, most wistful, dear little smile. Steph didn't think it was enough.

"Bucky," she said deliberately, "There's nowhere I'd rather be, okay? Mo ghrá thú, my James."

"Steph," he answered, and closed his eyes for a moment. 

The plane, already rocking noticeably, lurched violently.

Bucky gave up on fighting for stability, settling one hand at the small of Steph’s back while the other found her neck. He was trembling, maybe, or Steph was. It could just have been everything around them.

“I’ll find you,” he vowed. “Stephanie, no matter what comes next, I swear to God I’ll come for you.”

“You won’t have to,” she promised. “I’ll be right here.”

His eyes flicked back to the ice, and Steph recognised the expression that crossed his face with sympathy and horror at the same time. His self-reproach was anathema – the idea that Bucky's last thoughts would be of how he had failed her, when only the opposite had ever been true-

“No,” she hissed. “No, you stupid James Bucky Buchanan-”

Steph caught her boy’s face in her hands as she had done so many times before, and thought about her wedding as she pressed her lips to his. All mine and always mine, she tried to say in a language he’d have to know was for real. His answer was the gentlest caress, roughened by salt tears and bitter regret but warm with a whole lifetime of moments stolen just to be shared, constant companionship in the face of war and illness, loss and laughter, science-magic serums and annoying goddamn boots.

It was sad, maybe, but it was also bright and fierce and free. Too much, and not enough, and everything they had to give.

It was very Steph and Bucky, they might have said in Brooklyn Heights.

Gary would be happy to see them again, she thought. 

Steph knew what was coming when Bucky pulled her closer still, tucking her head carefully against his shoulder like he could protect her from gravity itself with only determination and one gloved hand. She kissed his neck because it was what she could reach and smiled shakily against his skin. His lips brushed her temple; her boy could be predictable like that.

It had been so long since they'd seen his mam- longer still since they'd seen hers. Steph wondered if her da would recognise the man and woman they'd grown into, or if he'd still be looking out for a pair of little kids. 

They hit the ice with a jarring blow that went so deep Steph felt like she was being shaken apart with the groaning aircraft. Her throat burned, her vision swam- she thought she heard Bucky saying her name, low and urgent.

“James,” she tried to answer- but by then they were out of words, and out of time.

 

                                                                                    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yaiiii  
> 


	14. this man is your friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard Stark, after the end and before the beginning.

When Agent Carter came back alone, drawn and distressed, Howard felt his hand close tighter on the spanner he had been grasping loosely.

“Why the hell would you send her up after him?”

“She needed to-”

“Boss,” Izzy Cohen interrupted, “The signal’s failing.”

Howard raced over, but he could already see that Cohen was right.

“Damn it, Barnes, I said disconnect it, not destroy it! How could he even- someone get me radio contact, now.”

Cohen was already doing his best, muttering under his breath as he worked. Howard ground his teeth to stop himself from lashing out in anger.

“Hurry, god damn it. If we don’t get in touch we’re going to lose them.”

Peggy gasped, but knew not to interfere.

Howard grabbed the microphone as soon as Cohen offered it, speaking too fast and too frantically as soon as he was able.

“Come in, Captain Barnes. James, Stephanie, come in, damn it.”

“Stark, how the hell-”

Howard swallowed hard. At least they were still alive. Who knew for how long?

“We're just that good, kid. Listen, is Steph-”

“Right here, Mr. Stark.”

He couldn’t help but smile.

“Ah. Good. Hiya Mrs. Cap.  You two okay? Can I take it you got Schmidt?”

“I didn’t get to shoot him.”

Steph sounded deeply disappointed; behind Howard, Peggy laughed like she was choking.

“Bucky nearly broke his face, though.”

“Yeah? Well done, ace. Listen, I need your coordinates.”

“There’s no time, a chara.”

Bucky knew what Howard did, then. Strange-it didn’t sound like he hated him yet.

“Let me be the judge of that, Barnes.”

“Stark, there’s no-”

“Doesn’t matter. No power, no engine, no plane. You two just hang in there, okay? I’m not giving up on you.”

“Howard,” For a moment, Captain Barnes sounded criminally young. “Thank you.”

Stephanie had begun reciting the numbers they needed, but before she got halfway they lost contact altogether. Cohen’s hands flew over the controls, but all he managed to raise was the dreadful, empty drone of static that meant they were too late.

Howard didn’t move until Peggy, eyes already streaming, took the mic from him. He looked around the room, his eyes wild and his grip on his composure tenuous at best.

“’Thank you?’ Is that what he said?”

The others nodded warily, expressions pained.

One last string snapped somewhere deep inside, and Howard slammed his fist into the console in front of him so hard he knew he’d probably fractured something. For a moment he was fiercely glad- it seemed only right that he should bleed for what he’d done.

“Damn him. God damn the delusional son of a bitch.”

His assistants looked shocked, but Howard was beyond caring what anyone thought. It was the Stark way, he thought hysterically- anything truly beautiful, in contact with his family, must necessarily turn to ash. He should never have looked at them, that first day out in the street.

“Howard-”

“No! No. I send him to his death, you take his wife along to go down with him, and at the end he says _thank you?_ Fucking serum damaged his brain.”

Peggy Carter had always been amazing under pressure. She met Howard’s wrathful eyes as serenely as if they had been at some Sunday picnic instead of at the centre of what would likely be one of the last decisive battles of the war, and tried to reason with him through her tears.

“They knew what they were doing. You saved millions of lives between you.”

“I talked him into this.”

He saw her get ready to object, knowing Captain Barnes had been on the plane almost before Howard had decided it was really necessary, and shook his head insistently.

“Not today. Way back when. In New York. He thought the whole thing was crazy. He wouldn’t even have looked at the models if I hadn’t told him about Phase 2.”

Peggy stopped trying to interrupt, her striking features softening with sympathy. Howard continued in the same frenzied voice, compelled to finish his confession for all she couldn’t give the absolution he sought.

“I promised him she’d be better off after. It’s the only reason he stayed long enough to hear the rest.”

Agent Carter, God bless her, did the best she could.

“She’d say she _was_ better off after, Howard. You know perfectly well what they did because you gave them their start.”

“Asthmatic’s better than dead, Carter.”

“Howard. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not _just_ my fault. _I_ would have taken Stephanie back to Brooklyn like I promised her husband instead of hand-delivering her to her grave.”

So much for not lashing out in anger. Peggy flinched, her breath hitching slightly, but she gave no quarter. Her voice was as hard as he had ever heard it.

“She wanted to go. It was her life, Stark. I wasn’t going to stop her- you know damn well she thought he was worth it.”

The rapid recurrence of ‘was’ stopped them both in their tracks; for once in his life, Howard Stark found he had no interest in reaching a firm conclusion either way.

“Fine,” he said coldly. “It’s over anyway. You can tell the others. I need a fucking drink.”

He barely remembered the rest of the war. They shut HYDRA down with little trouble once it became clear that no two Schmidts would be growing from anywhere- Howard was back in New York, black label whisky firmly in hand, by the time the final surrender was negotiated.

He didn’t see the Captain’s team again, and didn’t expect he ever would until Gabe Jones turned up at Howard’s father’s house and said quietly that they were having a memorial, a proper one in church, and the men knew Mr. Stark didn’t go in for that sort of thing but surely he'd come, for the Captain’s sake, and Steph's?

He surely would, it turned out, and it was just as well. An English solicitor who had turned up specifically in hopes of meeting him- who knew Howard Sr. could be so tactful as to firmly rebuff everyone who had been looking for his son without even telling Howard he was protecting him?- handed him an envelope along with his business card and asked that Howard get in touch when he was ready to discuss their next steps. Howard didn’t have to ask what that meant; he stood quietly by, smiling and nodding as the Captain’s team did their best to give the couple Barnes a proper Irish wake full of love and laughter instead of sighing sadness. The last words his friend would ever say to him burned a hole in Howard’s pocket all the while.

When he ripped open the envelope that night, safe in his father’s study, the sight of Bucky’s carefully tidy handwriting on paper obviously borrowed from Steph’s ever-present notebooks was almost too much to bear. The letter was dated February ’45- after the train, but nearly two months before the final ending. He didn’t want to read it, Howard thought, and did.

_A chara,_

_I hope you’re not working too hard in whatever secret bunker Phillips has dragged you off to build or mend or whatever. Agent Carter says it’s important we do the legal stuff properly even if it just says ‘if Stephanie’s alive give her everything and if she isn’t let Stark deal with it,’ so I’m writing the “Sorry I died” letters that go along with the rest of it. How’s that for having fun on leave? I hope to God Steph never has to read hers- I swear I sound like Jack’s gran the time she got into the gin and cried all over everyone for hours._

_If you get this one, though, then my girl's gone as well. God, that's hard to write. I hope we didn’t trip on a mine or drop the shield during a stealth attack or something else idiotic. We don’t have much that’s worth anything to anyone but us, I guess, but if you want any of it then it’s yours and gladly after everything you’ve done for us. I’m sorry we won’t get to show you the Dodgers. Go to a game for us, maybe? But if you feel your inner Giants fan stirring you get right out of there for the sake of our friendship, rich kid. I’m not joking._

_Maybe you don’t need me to say this, but if I’m right you’ll be getting drunk and wishing you’d never said a word about Erskine’s project. In that case you should know we’ve never been anything but glad we got into all this.We’ve wanted to be here, all the way. Some of it’s been Hell, I know you know that- but some of it’s the best we’ve ever had it. Really it’s worth all this just to have a couple years without goddamn asthma ruling our lives._

_If we're together at the end I know I’ll wish to god I could have saved her, and she’ll probably go down yelling at me for being stupid about I don’t know what, but here and now I really think that might be kinder than either of us trying to go it alone after. I know you’ll wish you could have changed it either way. I would too. But we play the hand we’re dealt, right?_

_Here’s my idea: make like your dad and name a car or a gun or whatever after us. Steph says I have to tell you ‘no trains, please’ even though you’re not an idiot and your family has nothing to do with trains anyway. Something real nice, one of your best. Don’t put the stars and stripes on it. And then put this behind you, for heaven’s sake, and go live your life the way you want, or else goddamn HYDRA gets another casualty they didn’t even have to work for. If you still miss us after that just raise a glass to my girl on the fourth and remember to tell your grandkids how you nearly cracked your skull on your flying car the day we met. It’ll be enough. It’s already enough. _

_Enjoy the future, Stark. Better make it good- Steph’s going to ask about everything when we see you again._

_JBB ( & Stephanie M. ~~Rogers~~ Barnes)_

Howard closed his eyes, took a breath, and put down the tumbler that was beginning to feel like part of his arm.

In the morning he called the solicitor back and scheduled a visit to Brooklyn Heights, then went back into the study to revisit medical texts he hadn’t looked at in more than two years.

A week later, he arranged to meet his father for a serious working lunch and arrived with a stack of calculations that had Howard Sr. smiling at his son’s unexpected return to form.

“I know you think this whole thing’s crazy, but I did all the work myself. Some of it a few times. The numbers don’t lie.”

His father looked intrigued, even impressed, but was understandably wary of Howard’s dangerous, expensive proposition with so very little chance of a favourable result. He only had one question.

“Tell me why this matters so much.”

“They are- they were?- they grew up Catholic.”

Howard Sr., a more confirmed atheist than his son, had married Eva in the church she attended and observed every custom that mattered to her regardless of his own feelings. He nodded curiously, waiting to see where the argument led.

“If I’m right, and they’re still alive-” Howard swallowed thickly- “then I’ve trapped two kids who believe in heaven with all their hearts in the only situation that could stop them getting there if there’s anywhere to go. Dad, I promised. I told them I wouldn’t give up on them. It was the last thing I said to the closest friends I’ve ever had.”

The elder Stark decided that Howard could have the summers to supervise his expeditions if he kept up with work while he was away. The rest of the time it was all the same to him if they continued, but Howard Jr. would stay in New York being a credit to his father and the company.

Howard went back to work the next day, and out to Alaska two months later.

For a long time that was his life: work, water, waiting to hear. A decade passed, and then another. They found some things- parts of the wreck, eventually the goddamn blue and glowing cube itself. Nothing of value, not the way Howard wanted it, but enough to convince him (and his father) that he wasn’t chasing shadows. When Stark senior died he was buried next to Howard’s mother because father and son had already agreed that Eva would have wanted it that way; Howard Stark, no longer junior in any sense, received his employees’ condolences standing next to the matching headstones and tried not to think about the high winds and icy seas that might be all another pair of lost sweethearts ever got by way of permanent memorial.

When his bold, beautiful assistant made her move, Howard didn’t ask whether Maria realised how much older than her he was, or if she knew what being with him would mean for her personal freedoms in a New York increasingly obsessed with celebrity drama- the more as members of the Kennedy clan dropped with alarming frequency. He didn’t ask whether she was aware that she was way too good for him, or if she’d mind that any summer holidays they might have would be colder than winters at home and at work.

It wasn’t what James Barnes would have done, he thought as he pushed her up against the desk that had been his father’s, but then not everyone had their soulmates placed neatly in their paths during their infancy. Howard tangled his fingers in her hair, savoured the warmth of an attractive woman eager for more than he would have thought to offer, and realised he was glad to be alive.

Maria seemed to know what she was getting into, at least, and she never complained about the stranger routines that were part of being involved with Howard Stark. She handled the press like she’d been born to do it, and quickly became the star of the society gatherings Howard only grudgingly attended. She smiled through the sometimes weepy toasts and often raucous reminiscences that inevitably accompanied the fireworks they watched from the mansion with the slowly diminishing number of the Captain’s team who showed up every independence day.

When she arrived in his office one day, flustered and defensive as she muttered about missing her period, Howard knew Maria was fully expecting him to say he’d drive her to the clinic of her choice as soon as she could get an appointment. He was too old, wasn’t he, and she was much too independent. Instead, Howard thought of his friend of nearly half a lifetime ago, hopeful, a little embarrassed, wholly affectionate- “she should be a mother, Howard, she’d be the best there ever was”- and took his lover’s hand with a softer smile than came naturally to him.

“Marry me,” he suggested earnestly. “Have my kid. Be my family. Maria, it’ll be the best thing we do together.”

He was as surprised as she was when she said yes.

They named the baby Anthony James. Maria had never been the kind of woman who would give up her career to raise a child, and Howard didn’t exactly have a choice about staying on at the company he both owned and ran, but they did what they could and hired only the best to fill the gaps.

Tony was five the first time his father let him come on one of his summer trips to look for Captain Bucky and Agent Steph. Watching his son peer anxiously out over the water with his little binoculars, forlornly reporting that he’d seen a dolphin and two big shapey things but not any Captains yet, Howard knew he’d never love anyone as much as he did his son.

“Don’t worry, ace. We’ll keep looking, huh?”

It wasn’t everything he felt he should have done by then, but maybe, Howard thought as Tony grinned his trusting, toothy grin, it was enough.

 

                                                                          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reckon you can tell from this that I loved Steve's letter to Tony Stark from the Death of Captain America run, including how he underlines things aggressively so he can be bossy even in writing. aw.
> 
> ((this is where you get off for other AAUs! next chapter takes us into almost-MCU chronology))


	15. keep it coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it a lot of ways, their second life begins just like their first one ended.

Bucky's senses reasserted themselves in stages. He took in the whir of industrial fans, the drone of someone else’s radio in another room, and then the dreaded familiarity of hospital room sterility. Thank God, he thought hazily, for stubborn Starks who didn’t know how to give up. As he reached automatically for Stephanie he made out her voice pleading with someone some ways away. Her husband had enough of his wits about him to know that she was terrified.

“- know because we were there. Please, I don’t care about that, I need to know if James-”

Bucky shot up almost before he realised he had opened his eyes.

Stephanie was in the next room, by the sound of it, and from her increasing desperation he figured the conversation must have been going on for some time. Bucky’s voice was scratchy and strange to his ears, but of course Steph knew him at once. 

“Steph! ‘m right here.”

“Bucky? James, thank God.”

He smiled at the relief in her voice, but it didn’t last.

“Let me see him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.”

“What? Why? What’s wrong, J, are you-”

“Ma’am, I need you to calm down.”

“I’m perfectly- I just want to see my-”

Bucky heard a door open, then Steph’s sharp intake of breath. When that was followed by a metallic click that could too easily have been made by a gun, he didn’t think twice. Grabbing a steel tray close at hand, Bucky smashed it into the wall with all the force he could muster. His only plan was to distract them from Steph long enough for her to duck, disarm someone or otherwise get out of the line of fire, so Bucky was as taken aback as anyone when a sizeable section of the wall between them broke apart in a splutter of plasterboard and metal casing.

His wife yelled his name in something like triumph, shaking off the woman gripping her arm and throwing herself in his direction. The two men coming towards them wore unmarked dark jackets which gave no clue as to their allegiances.  They were armed, though, and they were advancing- for the moment, that was enough to go on.

Bucky grabbed Steph’s hand and they dashed back the way he’d come. He wrenched at the locked door so viciously he took it off its hinges- Steph smirked a little as the agents closing in on them backed off in surprise. They didn’t waste a moment of their opponents’ stupor- the fewer people he actually had to knock out, Bucky guessed, the better for everyone in the long run.

They dodged a few half-heartedly reaching hands and ran for it.

“I think we’re on a ship,” Steph muttered as they ducked into an unlocked stairwell. Bucky bolted the door firmly- it wouldn’t buy them a lot of time, but any advantage counted. With his head clearer, and his heart not pounding quite as loudly over the sound of his wife’s distress, Bucky could tell that she was right- they were definitely in motion, and if he paid attention he could just about hear the engine driving them wherever they were bound.

“Submarine, you think?”

That would explain the lack of windows anywhere, maybe.

“I guess we should go up?”

He shrugged; she shrugged. They were still holding hands.

Up they went, feet pounding on metal slats as a too-loud voice blared “Code 13” over hidden speakers.

They burst through the final door to taste fresh air- and discover that they weren’t on any kind of sea-going vessel at all.

Steph went completely still, but Bucky stumbled forwards as though impelled.

He didn’t know a word for an airship of this size.

He’d never imagined he might need one.

The giant craft hovered way above a large watercourse, but they were near enough to a towering city that Bucky wasn’t thrown back into the nightmare of the plane and the ice. He stared out at the city, and as his eyes found impossible details James Barnes realised something he almost wished he hadn't.

“James!” The real fear in Steph’s voice penetrated her husband’s waking trance. “Come away from the edge, J.”

He did, at once, but as she wrapped protective arms around him Bucky kept staring down at the scene beneath them.

“Steph,” he whispered.

“Stephanie, this is New York.”

She shook her head in denial, gaze flitting over sheet-glass buildings lining streets choked with cars like they had never seen- but then she too found the statue Bucky couldn’t seem to take his eyes off, the very one that had meant so much to their parents as a promise that their children, at least, might yet ‘breathe free.’ Steph sagged against him in what Bucky took to be the same uncomprehending shock he felt.

They heard the agents massing and turned to face them as their pursuers finally caught up, but by then they were beyond putting up much resistance. Bucky stepped carefully in front of Steph, just in case, but before anyone could act or react a new voice, strangely familiar, cut through the chaos.

“Jeez, do you people see what happens when I actually go to meetings? Well not this, exactly, this has never happened before, but- shit, are they okay? What did you assholes do to them? Back off, stormtroopers, do they _look_ dangerous to you? He doesn’t even have shoes on, what is this?”

A stocky, dark-haired guy in a flashy suit was pushing his way forward, haranguing the others as he progressed. The uniformed guards took a few obedient steps away; most of them dropped their weapons with what looked like relief. Steph stayed close, saying nothing but laying one steadying hand on her husband's hip while she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

“You know what, you can all just back off right out of here, I’ll take care of this. What’s going to happen? They’re just blinking and cuddling. Even SHIELD allows blinking. Cuddling I don’t know about, I mostly deal with Fury and Hill.”

When their intercessor turned to them with an expression of intentionally comical despair contradicted by his warm, sympathetic eyes, Bucky knew where he’d seen a lot of this before. Stephanie, whose artist’s eye had probably identified the physical resemblances first, got there at the same time.

“You’re Howard Stark’s kid.”

Howard’s son nodded, grinning.

“You two really are quick. Tony Stark. Anthony James, in fact. Howard was my dad, yeah. Look, there’s a lot to tell you. Where d’you want to start? Actually- do you need to sit?”

Steph, always the bravest kid in Brooklyn, ignored the offer to ask the hardest question first.

“What year is it?”

Howard’s son looked almost apologetic, but for the first time since he’d burst onto the scene he spoke straight to the point.

“It’s 2012.”

He said it “two thousand twelve,” which somehow made it sound even more incomprehensibly far from home. Steph put both arms around Bucky’s waist and leaned against him from behind. For a moment it was all he could do to clutch at her hands where they were locked in front of him. He would have called the whole thing crazy and had them both out of there in seconds whether they had to jump off the damn whatever-it-was to do it, but the fact remained that Lady Liberty stood watch over buildings Bucky had never seen before, and his friend’s son was maybe a decade older than Howard had been the last time they had seen him- only hours earlier from their perspective. The implications were insane- the war long over, their team old and grey if they were alive at all- Howard already years dead.

But then Bucky remembered how fervently he’d wished he could have spared Stephanie her place on Schmidt’s plane, and the full weight of what that would have meant for this moment slammed into him so hard it almost brought him to his knees. Steph staggered with him, understandably concerned.

“Talk to me, a chéadsearc.”

She let go of him so Bucky could turn to face her and ran her hands lightly over his shoulders while he tried to force an answer past his constricted throat.

“Thank God you climbed into that god-damned plane. I’m never going anywhere without you again, okay? Ever, Steph.”

He saw her affectionate concern turn into anguished comprehension, ending in the same scared gratitude he felt. She smiled lopsidedly.

“Deal. I already said, didn’t I? I go where you go, James B.”

“Stephanie Maire, I’ll never not thank God for that.”

Their friend’s son let out an almost involuntary chuckle, then looked guilty as they both turned to him.

“Sorry! Sorry, it’s just- you’re taking this really well, you know? I was expecting more screaming and breaking things.”

“We took out a wall and a door on the way,” Bucky offered, trying to be helpful; Tony beamed like Christmas had come early.

“Did you? Damn, I hope someone got video. Serves them right- Coulson and his 40s fakeout crap. 'Break it to you slowly'- did they get round to telling you, you know, where you are and how you got here?”

Steph shook her head, eyes hard.

“They wouldn’t tell me they knew where he was.”

“Assholes,” this other Stark reiterated with feeling. “Okay, important disclaimers first. You're both fine. Healthwise, I mean. It makes no damn sense but it all checks out. Also, you’re not being detained. I can’t imagine what this looks like- I’m so sorry, I _told_ Fury an actual Earth-bound hospital was the only- sorry, sorry. Point: you’re absolutely free to go wherever you want to go as soon as you want to go.”

But that wasn’t true, Bucky knew- they couldn’t ever go where they wanted to- when they wanted to. Steph was probably thinking the same thing-she pressed her cheek into his shoulder and closed her eyes with a sigh.

And yet- even this was more than he had known to hope for as he’d hung onto his wife with desperate care and tried not to think about the ice that was going to end her life and his.

In another way entirely, it was more than Bucky had ever dared to hope for. Before the serum, he’d never allowed himself the luxury of thinking about growing old with Steph Rogers. It just wasn’t on the cards- he’d always understood that his lot would be to love his wife while he could, and cherish her memory when she was gone- assuming he survived whatever lingering illness took her from him in the end.

Afterwards, when everything was different and Steph was standing sure and strong beside him, Bucky had sometimes let himself think about After- jobs they actually wanted to do instead of whatever might pay just enough, visiting Howard in Long Island, Jones in Lower Man; maybe at some point Peggy in London. His boys would have come up from Philly and wreaked all kinds of hell in Brooklyn Heights. He’d imagined their family, some nights- a girl named Sarah, maybe, with his nose and her mother’s perfect hair, a boy they’d name for Gary, or her dad. He’d never said any of this to Stephanie, though- everyone at war knew that talking about the dream was the surest way to kill it. And he’d never let it go too far- they’d both known with too much clarity that the chances they’d both make it home were cripplingly slim. But now-

“James?”

Steph’s voice was hesitant, but when he looked up she was smiling slightly, waiting for him to share whatever he had decided.

“I guess Buck Rogers wasn’t too far off the mark, huh. You want we should use your name this time around?”

Steph looked completely startled for a moment, then burst out laughing, bright and clear, and wrapped her arms around his neck again.

“James Barnes, do you know how much I love you?”

“I think I can guess, a ghrá.”

Steph leaned up and kissed him quickly; Bucky tried to put everything he couldn’t articulate yet into it. When they separated he aimed for the cocky grin that usually made Steph roll her eyes. Instead of groaning in exasperation, his wife leaned back in to kiss him again, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth, apparently just because she could.

After a moment they turned back to Howard’s boy and found him tapping obsessively at some appropriately futuristic hand-held device.

“Did you say Anthony James?”

Tony looked up with a tentative, almost shy smile.

“Yeah. Literally born and raised looking forward to this moment. God, I wish my dad could be here. He was so sure, you know, that we’d find you in the end.”

Steph sighed- sympathetic, compassionate, not quite ready to grieve over her own losses. Bucky, knowing exactly how she felt, caught her hand in both of his.

He quirked an eyebrow at his namesake.

“2012, huh. You wanna catch us up?”

                                                                   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand 21st Century! 
> 
> I hope it was worth the trip! it has been the most fun to work on. thank you so much everyone who stuck with this, especially in comments that made me feel like I'm not the only nutcase invested in this (sorry I'm calling me a nutcase not you guys).
> 
> now…after-credits sequence, since I've been following the movie pacing pretty exactly, and then maybe some Winter Soldier AAUs where everything is terrible compared to this but still very fluffy compared to canon?  
> then if we haven't all died of feelingz post-Winter Soldier movie we can talk about an Avengers fic where Tony, like, actually wants to be there from the start.


	16. Brooklyn Heights coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bonus after-credits bit because I wish Steve had got his own in addition to the Avengers trailer

On the steps where they had played as kids some eighty years earlier, James Barnes offered his wife a little velvet box and a triumphant smile.

“I told you I’d find your ring one day. I didn’t think it would take this long, Steph.”

In their old life, Stephanie would probably have balked and grumbled, mumbling that Bucky was being too extravagant by half, again. He would have grinned and admitted that he’d be indentured to George Henley til his last day, but then sworn it would be worth it to see her in diamonds like she deserved. She’d sigh, he’d grin, she’d open the box and love him all the more for the way his whole face lit up in anticipation of her reaction. She’d never get to wear it, because it would still have been Brooklyn Heights in the 40s, but they’d both know he’d done it, and she’d treasure it for the way it signed how her own mad James treasured her.

In summer 2012, when so much about their second chance still seemed disorienting at best, the familiarity of Bucky’s eagerness to shower his wife with unnecessary presents was more of a gift than the luxuries he could suddenly afford. Steph opened the box without protest, her smile widening at Bucky’s barely contained excitement. He had chosen a delicate white gold ring, elegantly set with small square-cut sapphires alternating with tiny diamonds. It was strangely modest, considering it was _made of diamonds and sapphires_ , and Steph knew it was the only possible ring for her. Unexpectedly, she found herself close to tears.

“It’s the nicest ring in Brooklyn Heights. It might be the nicest ring in the world. Will you-”

Bucky took the hand she offered, but surprised her by raising her hand to his lips before he slipped her new ring on with careful pride. They both grinned when it clinked softly against her wedding band.

“I think you're the only future I ever wanted,” he murmured as they admired her hand. “The rest of it is- not even that important, you know? As long as you’re with me I just don’t care that much how New York went so crazy while we were …not here.” 

“You’re such a sap. New York’s always been crazy, Bucky.”

But maybe Steph was a sap too, because before she closed the gap between them to kiss him soft and slow she repeated words she'd said before, just to make sure he knew they were still true in this new and differently crazy New York.

“You know there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

* * *

 

“I've never seen a 40s proposal before!”

Mark Simmons glanced away from his laptop to find his sister Michelle peering out the window eagerly.

“A what?”

“A 1940s-themed marriage proposal! Those two down there. Her dress, his hair. That trenchcoat is vintage or I’ve never been to Brooklyn Flea. Aww! Good for them, she totally said yes. I wonder why he picked Middagh Street- is 58 a historical site or something?”

“Damn hipsters should just stay in Williamsburg,” Mark complained, turning back to his RSS feed with a grouchy sigh. “It's not fair, they already got Red Hook.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, I did pick out a ring for her! it looks like this: http://img.bluenile.com/is/image/bluenile/-sapphire-diamond-ring-14k-white-gold-/21366_main?$phab_detailmain$


	17. assorted avengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> is this what a trailer looks like in fic form? it has no title card because it has no title but for sure it stars the Captain and Mrs. Barnes.

“Tony!” Bruce Banner cried as soon as he was through the door. Knowing Tony the way he did, Bruce headed for the kitchen first. “Is it true you have Captain America _here_? I can't believe I had to hear that from Natasha- you're supposed to share your research, Stark. I hope you know I get first dibs on his-“

“On his what?”

A blonde woman wearing a man’s dark dress shirt over a tank top and jeans was smiling congenially at Bruce, her bright gaze curious. The guy whose shirt she was probably wearing lounged against the kitchen counter in a T-shirt and grey slacks, frowning slightly.

“How is that damn nickname still around?”

* * *

“‘The Champions Initiative?'”

Natasha shrugged.

“Barton wanted S.W.O.R.D- Stark, Widow, Odinson, …ARcher, Dr. Banner.”

Steph looked skeptical about the last two, but Bucky offered Clint his hand.

“SWORD and SHIELD, huh?”

Clint grinned; Agent Romanova sighed.

* * *

“No,” Loki snarled. “No, the wife of Odin can bear no love for Laufey’s son.” 

* * *

“You think _we_ are the sensible middle ground. You and me.”

Clint nodded serenely.

“Am I the only one who remembers Budapest?”

“Tasha, we’re talking about a sliding scale from Stark and Carter to the 40s soldier Catholics, with Birdman Sam and Dr. Hulk somewhere in the mix. That’s without counting the Norse-god-alien-guys who can’t agree on whether they hate each other.”

Natasha knocked back her shot. Clint grinned and poured another.

* * *

Sam Wilson stared at Captain Barnes for a long moment before turning warily to Iron Man.

“I could swear he said he thinks we should help Loki defeat an alien army. This isn’t some kind of combat stress thing, is it?”

Tony narrowed his eyes speculatively.

“Cap, are you being mind-controlled?”

Stephanie looked up long enough to roll her eyes.

“What exactly d’you think he’d say if he were, Ant’ny?”

* * *

“Oh! Are those two the Captain and Mrs. Barnes? Excellent! I’ve been dying to see their-”

“Say ‘DNA' at your own risk,” Iron Man advised. The Hulk rumbled darkly behind him.

“-Shield in motion,” Mr. Fantastic finished curiously. “But now I also want to know the DNA story.”

They jumped apart as a low hedge of flame leapt up between Richards and the other two.

“Reed! Stark! Big Scary Dr. B! Stop the giant claw-beasts, close the hole in the universe, _then_ have the broship of the geeks reunion!”

“I like him,” Sharon Carter decided. “When we trade the archer in I vote we ask for Johnny Storm.”

“One of my knives has been strangely slippery recently,” the Black Widow remarked casually as she sliced into a claw-beast of her own. 

“It’s a problem,” Bucky agreed, flinging the shield at another and smirking when it crashed to the ground.

“If you two ever team up,” Steph warned him over her shoulder, “I’ll come break you out of jail- again- but I’m not doing any of your paperwork. Ever.”

“Kiss your wife later,” Natasha ordered before Bucky could reply. “Go hit that black one before it spits at Thor.”

“You I might leave in jail,” Steph grumbled. “I’ve got this, go check on Barton or something. We’re already married, James- how did we end up with six chaperones?”

Bucky, the idiot, laughed out loud as he severed the alien’s thick spines with precise blows of the shield.

“More like six teenage children, a chroí. God have mercy.”

* * *

“Stay with me, my honey.”

Steph’s eyes burned as she combed her fingers through her husband’s sweat-slick hair. Her smile was bittersweet.

“You’re okay. God knows we know this drill. It can't last forever, J- we just have to wait it out.”

Bucky pressed his face into Steph's thigh with a shattered moan.

* * *

“Loki.”

Thor’s voice was as hushed as they had ever heard it.

“Brother, what have you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really really done now! so exciting. thanks everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> titles from WWII posters; endearments still mostly in Irish; Howard a sweetheart because I like him and this one will grow up less Tony-traumatising for having seen what actual happy people look like when they talk to each other affectionately


End file.
